


The Matchmaker (a romance in three parts)

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Crack (but what kind?), Drunk Texting, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Jealousy, Matchmaking, Meet...there is a meeting, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Modern AU, Romance, comedy of manners, food safety violations, is the tingling in my chest love or something i ate?, mysterious white powder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: Driven to wits end by Francis Crozier's drunk texting and James Fitzjames' constant storytelling; Sophia Cracroft hatches a plan to get those annoying two out of her life by pairing them off. A romantic dinner inside a historic location, what can go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

It was 3AM on a Saturday night in her uncle’s living room when Sophia Cracroft became utterly convinced that returning to Mariner’s Cove had been a mistake.

 

They were not seated so much as they were sunk into the overly large, burgundy couch that dominated the room. Her uncle, John Franklin, struggled to stay awake; nodding every so often while listening to his excitable guest in a valiant effort to avoid nodding off himself. Her aunt, Jane Franklin, was less subtle, laying back into the cushions with an empty wine glass in her hands, eyes closed. Sophia’s glass too was, very unfortunately, empty. She tried leaving for the kitchen to refill it but her kindly uncle rested a hand on hers and gave her a chiding look. _Don’t interrupt our guest now, Sophie_ , she could hear her uncle’s kindly and paternal voice in her head-all to damned familiar.

 

God forbid they came across as rude to their wonderful guest: the worldly and dashing James Fitzjames. At first, the arrival of this globetrotting and knowledgeable man had been a breath of fresh air gusting into the stagnant confines of the Franklin household. James Fitzjames was multilingual, charming, handsome, stylish, and filled with amusing anecdotes that had them all-even the usually stuffy John Franklin-besides themselves in laughter. It was impossible to hate Fitzjames; her father, who at first felt scandalized that his guest spoke French, had practically allowed Fitzjames to move in. And why not? James Fitzjames was not one to eat out of another’s outstretched hand for too long, he was a man of pride. Besides, not too many people could stand to be in John Franklin’s rather overbearing presence for too long.

 

She was wrong. Trapped between her two relatives and forced to listen to Fitzjames gush over the ‘awesome’ firework show he devised last year; Sophia Cracroft knew she was terribly wrong.

 

Wrong to come back and wrong to believe James Fitzjames would ever leave.

 

“The wind swirled all about me and lighting lashed the sky; flying leaves cut and slashed my face like daggers; but I did not falter for a moment during my ascent, oh no, I did not dream of it!” James Fitzjames-dressed in a long yellow nightgown with a matching colored nightcap-gestured wildly about the room. “Let it not be said that I left a chap in need! So I braced myself against the elements and forced my way upwards; constantly moving lest gravity itself reach me with it’s invisible grip and drag me down.” He kicked his legs up and down, his golden velvet slippers catching the light-bright twinkling points in a rather conservatively furnished room. “So I reached the top and grabbed hold of a wildly shaking branch; calling upon my last reserves of strength to rescue the hissing feline; and once it’s claws were bared did the real struggle begin…” Fitzjames, overwhelmed with passion, drew his legs up to his chest and made himself comfortable on the armchair.

 

In doing so, Fitzjames revealed to his hosts a fair portion of his lower legs and Sophia noticed her uncle’s visible discomfort at the sight. No doubt he was worried about this younger, virile guest showing off too much flesh in front of his impressionable female relatives. How little he knows about James, she thought behind a smile. If anything, it was Franklin’s own virtue he needed to worry about-James Fitzjames had made it well known to her that he appreciated those with a full-figure.    

 

“But it was a worthwhile one,” John Franklin said, his voice strained, and nodded with a solemn expression on his face. “I do not dream how Jane would have felt if she lost that precious kitty of hers.”

 

“Surely she wouldn’t feel worse than I did when the tree got struck by lightning,” Fitzjames deadpanned. “Anyhow, I’d appreciate it if Mrs. Franklin looked into declawing dear Fagin.”  

 

So this was how Sophia, the beautiful mayor’s daughter, spent her Saturday nights, listening how James Fitzjames rescued her aunt’s cat from a tree in the middle of a thunderstorm. It was a story Fitzjames told many evenings that inevitably turned to long nights and each time John Franklin would be too polite to tell Fitzjames to just keep his mouth shut for once. John Franklin was anything but improper, and his absent minded devotion to hospitality doomed them all to listening to Fitzjames all during dinner, through the evening, and long into the night. Jesus fucking Christ, Sophia wanted to scream whenever James Fitzjames looked like he was actually going to retire early, only to suddenly and without warning blabber on about how he wrestled an alligator in some dreadful sounding place called Myakka. The stories were fun at first, but enough was enough!  

 

Sophia Cracroft, on the other hand, was not snared by the conventions that bound her uncle.

 

Without waiting to hear what epic Fitzjames was going to grace them all with next; Sophia ignored her father and rose to her feet, saying to Fitzjames: “I’d love to hear how you paddled down the Rhine without a pair of pants but I really need to get some sleep.”

 

James Fitzjames gaped at her like a dead fish washed up on the waterfront and Franklin grimaced as if he were in pain. She’d definitely be hearing from her uncle tomorrow; no matter, she thought. Sophia turned her back on them and marched upstairs    

 

“It’s not like I was wearing nothing down their!” cried a haughty Fitzjames from below.

 

“Surely not, we’ve heard you talk about it before,” came her uncle’s soothing voice.

 

“I had a good reason to do what I did, and if it came to it, I’d do it all again!”

 

“Oh I’m sure you would…”

 

Sophia slammed her door shut so that she only heard a steady murmuring and made ready for bed. She’d sleep in while her aunt and uncle went to church; she would tell them that she’d go to the late service but instead pay a visit to Silna and after that...but it was no use. She’d have to come back here, Uncle John would be worried sick if she didn’t, and she’d be stuck with James Fitzjames. She flopped down onto her bed and closed her eyes.

 

The phone on her nearby nightstand vibrated. Dammit. There was only one person in all of the Cove who’d text her at 3AM. She ignored it but, surely enough, it vibrated it again-the noise magnified by the hard surface of the nightstand. Double dammit. She reached out for the phone and held it to her face. Squinting at the phone’s screen she saw who it was: Francis Moira Rawdon Motherfucking Crozier. Drunk texting again, most like.

 

Actually, despair texting seemed to be a more accurate description. It read:

 

_Thomas sick. Very worried :v( that is a melancholy face cus im sad :( :( Wut do? He has cool._

 

Sophia sighed. ‘Cool’ was obviously meant to be cold. She texted:

 

_Which Thomas? Jopson or Blanky? If its only a cold just keep him warm. Remember to make sure hes eating._

 

Crozier quickly replied:

 

_Im keeping him warm with body heat. Blanky me and neptun and jopeson are all in bed with him blanky in middle_

 

Not the for the first time, Sophia was left wondering what exactly the...dynamic...was between the three men who both worked and lived in a near derelict pub (as Blanky called it) or bar (as Crozier stubbornly insisted) at the edge of town. It was probably a relationship of mutual friendship and camaraderie; the three men spent plenty of time in the Coast Guard together and in an environment like that, locked in the confines of an outbound ship, men and women often became close. And yet the mischievous part of her mind, a quite sizeable part of it really, couldn’t help but wonder what they got up to when no one else was around. She texted back:

 

_You’re doing a great job Francis. He’ll be better tomorrow. Good night._

 

There was a joke to be made about Blanky and blankets and sandwiches but she was too worn out for such nonsense. Sophia put the phone away and closed her eyes. People who spent a day at the beach often claim that they can hear the monotonous sound of the waves crashing on shore as they drift off to sleep; Sophia didn’t know about that, but she sure as hell knew she could still hear Fitzjames droning on in her head about getting lost in an IKEA and spending the night hiding under a bed from security because he was so embarrassed about being locked in at closing time. She shut her eyes and clasped her hands over her ears but Fitzjames-who seemed to be sending her psychic messages now-grew more insistent, telling her of how he was abducted by aliens in New Mexico and knew it had to be extraterrestrials because the two strange marks on his behind couldn’t have possibly been made-

 

Her phone vibrated again; she groaned. He’s usually not _this_ bad, she thought. Crozier’s message read:

 

_But what if Banksy get pneomonia?????? I dont want to take him to stanly...hes a banstand...this makes me want to go in the basement. I always like broom closets as a kid_

 

Seconds later he added:

 

_I coulnt find soup for blanky...why cant i get anything in life :(_

 

Sophia did not respond. Instead, she tightened her grip on the phone as if she wanted to squeeze Crozier’s gloomy presence out of it. _If he sends out one more goddamn text_.

 

_Sophia? Are you there? You are tearing me apart Sophia!!!!1111!!!111!!!!!11!!!_

 

Sophia once more bid him goodnight before completely turning off her phone. My God, she thought, what had gotten into him? Texts at night weren’t unusual but this was something else-and she would know. Her Crozy’s habits were not at all unfamiliar.

 

Sophia and Francis had known each other since they were children; she was close friends with the quiet, rather rough boy and their close relationship baffled everyone-especially her uncle who didn’t consider the young Francis to be _proper_. John Franklin didn’t have to worry, however; the two of them moved on, with Crozier going to Westmount, Nova Scotia to attend the Coast Guard’s officer cadet program and Sophia leaving to study art history in Paris. They had neither seen nor heard of each other in years, but Sophia never quite forgot the roughhousing yet introspective boy who never showed up at church; who would appear at her doorstep dripping with seawater and grinning like a madman with a bucket of crabs he had fetched with his bare hands. She never failed to laugh when she remembered how he’d ‘accidentally’ spill the bucket and send crabs scuttling into the house, causing Jane Franklin to have a screaming fit-leaping onto the table and refusing to get down until her husband picked up all the snipping and snapping creatures. But behind all that was a certain sensitivity; a withdrawn aspect of him that grew more pronounced as he grew older. Many were put off by it, but not her, never her. She missed having him for a friend, and always felt that he must miss her in the same way.

 

Upon their reunion, she learned that she was both right and wrong.

 

Crozier had not forgotten about her either. Far from it, his feelings for her had actually grown in intensity, swelling up into something that he called love. The romantic notions that she knew lurked deep inside his heart had leapt out to overwhelm him. Crozier, who never went to church and scoffed at her uncle’s displays of piety, was convinced that their reunion was not chance, but one thing only: fate.

 

When Sophia learned of this; a four letter word came to mind, it even started with an ‘f’, but it wasn’t ‘fate’.  

  

Sophia stared at the ceiling. _I’m going to lose my mind if this keeps up_. Life with her uncle was unbearable enough; so why must she suffer James Fitzjames’ tales during the day and Crozier’s whining at night? Life would be a lot more bearable if all the John’s and Henry’s and Thomas’s and Harry’s (except for Goodsir who never did a bad thing in his life. Peglar and Bridgens were also exempt by virtue of being so lovely to be around) just picked up and left, but James Fitzjames and Francis Crozier were the biggest offenders. If she could only get rid of the two of them. Get Fitzjames to tell his stories to someone else and Crozier to stop being so miserable. She really cared for the latter man, and it worried her to see him acting like this. If only all that quiet intensity could be focused on someone else…

 

Inspiration struck her so suddenly that she rose up in bed, propping herself up on her elbows.

 

James Fitzjames and Francis Crozier: a match not quite made in heaven, but good enough for these parts. Didn’t opposites attract? That’s how it worked in those romances her aunt (and uncle, though he’d never admit it) were always watching. Perhaps they held a grain of truth. Whatever the case may be, she was set on this course of action. They were both single and, if their behavior was any indicator, hated to be alone. The introspective Crozier is a negative and the extroverted Fitzjames is a positive, she reasoned, so there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be able to cancel each other out of her life.

 

Sophia Cracroft smiled at her flawless reasoning. This will not fail, she assured herself, if all went well the two men would be out of her life and in each other...in each other’s lives, that is...and all will be well once more. She’d move out of her uncle’s house and open a gallery, bring some culture to this castaway town, and smile when Crozier and Fitzjames came in for a tour, arm in arm. She closed her eyes and finally, mercifully, drifted off to sleep. Only a few stray thoughts drifting about her now placid consciousness.

 

_I’ve really outdone myself this time_.


	2. Chapter 2

Sophia wasted no time in putting her plan into motion.

 

While sky was still a dull grey in the east, Sophia crept out of her room and quietly tiptoed into the guest bedroom. Slowly pushing the door open, all too aware of the odd creaking noise, she blinked her eyes, adjusting them to the dark. Once the door was adequately tilted open, she angled her body into the gap and froze, watching Fitzjames where he lay in silk sheets-Fitzjames would settle for nothing less. As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, she noticed the glossiness of the sheets and Fitzjames’ silhouette which was a darker shadow amongst a menagerie of others.

 

The only light came from the face of the alarm clock on top a tall dresser. Like a moth to the flame, she flittered to this harsh blue beacon, navigating herself around unseen obstacles on the floor. She relied solely on her memory, knowing full well the enormity of the risk she was taking. The clock said only five minutes had passed since she snuck into the room and she wondered why it had felt like five hours. Right in front of the dresser now, she stood on her toes and took down the alarm clock. It was set to ring at 7AM; giving plenty of time for her aunt, uncle and a reluctant Fitzjames to get ready and head out for the 9AM church service. She tapped a few buttons and set it to a much later hour. Step one complete.

 

She softly padded away on slippered feet. Excitement made her clumsy, but Fitzjames, who was snoring loudly now, didn’t notice her crunching on the various travel and fashion magazines scattered about on the floor.         

 

He did notice the cat though.

 

Fagin, unbeknownst to Sophia, had slipped in through the doorway and right when she was about to leave she stepped on the cat’s tail. There was a dreadful shriek and both woman and cat flew away from each other, the cat’s claws loudly tapping against the hardwood floor and Sophia bumping into a shelf, causing books to tumble down and thump loudly on the floor. Sophia struggled to right herself, wildly flailing her arms for balance in the dark.  

 

And then James Fitzjames woke up. “That you Henry?” he asked calmly, his voice reflecting a heavy drowsiness. She made out the dim form of Fitzjames sitting up in his bed. “I told you, not when I’m at John’s.”

 

_Which Henry?_ She thought angrily, _Henry who?_ _Are there any original names here?_ Sophia hid in the shadows, slowly inching towards the door.

 

“Whose their?” Fitzjames continued, “speak, or I’ll shout.”

 

Sophia halted, and decided to take another risk. She moved to the foot of Fitzjames’ bed and said in a kindly voice, “This is nothing but a dream, go back to bed James.”

 

“Okay, auntie,” he replied equanimously and laid back down.

 

Sophia frowned. An aunt? In all his expounding and storytelling he never mentioned an aunt, or any family for that matter. Now that Sophia thought about it as she snuck back to her room; if Fitzjames were to be believed, he was born in Mariner’s Cove, left early, went on a bunch of fantastic adventures, and inexplicably returned to start some kind of hip news blog or whatever. A real mystery man, but knowing Fitzjames, he was probably cultivating the image of the handsome stranger on purpose. A cloak of vanity as beautiful as the bright clothes he wore, hiding…

 

Hiding what?

 

Sophia Cracroft stared at the ceiling of her bedroom and whispered the question; it was no use, their was only the shadows and the silence and the still air.     

         

\---

 

Now came step two of Sophia Cracroft’s master plan.

 

7AM approached and soon came the familiar sounds of, in the next room, her aunt and uncle getting out of bed, washing, and getting dressed. Sophia’s hands clutched her blanket in anticipation. Sometime after eight she heard them step out into the hallway and, quite suddenly, halt.

 

“Where on earth is James?” asked a very irritated Jane Franklin.

 

“Still dressing himself, dear, you know how he is,” came John Franklin’s patient voice.

 

The seconds crawled by interminably. Her caretakers stamped their feet impatiently. She held her breath. _If this doesn’t work_.

 

“James?” Franklin called. “We’re going to be late, now!” His footsteps sounded down the hallway and passed her door.

 

“Hush John!” Jane hurriedly shushed him.”We can’t just barge in their and toss him out of bed now, can we? What if you walk on in and find he’s, well, indecent.”

 

For once she was glad to hear the chains of etiquette rattling. She had been counting on it.

 

“No, I suppose not,” John reluctantly agreed. “Still, it’s very impertinent of him to leave us waiting like this.”

 

“Come now, John, he wore himself out last night. Nothing tires a man more than talking about himself.”

 

“I used to be the same way,” said a very mischievous John Franklin, “until I met you.”

 

“Oh John, you rascal!” Jane squealed. Sophia heard Jane slapping what was presumably John’s hand away. “Ooh, dear!”

 

_OH NO!!!_ Sophia hid under the covers. _Not now_.  

 

Fortunately, the Franklins were a God fearing couple so instead of fooling around right outside her room, they stomped down the stairs and closed the front door. She heard the lock slide with an audible click.

 

Finally.

 

Sophia leaped out of bed, got on a warm fleece robe, and hurried downstairs like she was a little girl at Christmas morning again. She rushed to the kitchen from whence came the loud clatter of plates and silverware, soon followed by the tin drumming of pots and pans.       

 

In the living room stood a tall, ebony clock that towered over it’s surroundings. It’s aged chimes had long since lost their voice and yet the hour hands, as if to compensate, made a heavy _tick...TOCK...tick...TOCK_ noise-the heavy notes constantly reverberating throughout the house. On the eleventh hour, the low, bass of the clock was joined by the high tenor of James Fitzjames.

 

“Oh no!” he screamed, “it’s eleven o’clock!”

 

From upstairs came the sounds of a frenzied struggle; as if a gigantuan anaconda had crawled into James Fitzjames’ room and had initiated a life or death struggle in order to finish what Fitzjames started in the rain drenched Amazon so long ago. He half fell down the stairs; tripping over the legs of his high waisted, navy blue flared pants while haphazardly jamming his feet into a pair of pointed toed, elevated ankle boots. Miraculously, he didn’t faceplant on the floor, instead flinging himself onto the familiar burgundy couch and flapping and flopping on the cushions. Sophia, standing near the dining table, was reminded of an irate, squawking tropical bird. His cheeks were rosy in indignation. So agitated was he, and so quickly he spoke over himself, that he had difficulty making words. “I’m gointh to be late!” he stammered. Damn ith!”

 

Sophia Cracroft cleared her throat.

 

James Fitzjames froze. His cheeks turned from a dull crimson to a bright scarlet. Guiltily, he finished getting dressed and rose to his feet. “Good morning, Sophia.” He covered his face in his hands, took a deep breath, and exhaled; taking his hands away from his now composed face. “Good morning Sophia,” he greeted her the same way he always did, “not off to church?”

 

“I’ll be going to the late service,” she lied.

 

“Fair enough.” Fitzjames brushed his curls away from his face. “Me too, always been planning on doing so.” He let out a laugh bordering on hysteria. “Shame on me for not informing Mr. and Mrs. Franklin.”

 

Sophia smiled. “Don’t worry. They won’t burn you at the stake just yet. Come.” She gestured at the table where several dishes had been laid. “I’ve prepared us a brunch.”

 

“Brunch eh? Never though I’d hear that word in this household.” He pulled out a chair for Sophia and, after she was seated, sat down himself. “I’ve never shared Mr. Franklin’s-”

 

“You can call him John,” she said softly.

 

Fitzjames nodded slowly. “John,” he conceded. “Lord knows I’m not the most devout person…’Pon my soul, that Irving fellow bores me to tears. But the least I can do for John is sit in the pews for a bit.”

 

“Never worry, James,” she said with just the right amount of warmth. “He won’t be mad. He’s not the one to hold grudges.” She couldn’t help but flash a more mischievous, more honest smile. “Jane though…”

 

Fitzjames returned the smile and ostentatiously crossed himself. “The flames of Hell don’t frighten me, but her? Oh goodness!” Fitzjames peered at his plate of what was supposed to be scrambled eggs. “You made this? Why, thank you. I’m touched.”

 

“Think nothing of it.” Sophia braced herself. _Don’t start liking the guy, not now._ She stared at her plate of scrambled eggs.

 

Fitzjames paused. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

 

“I’ve already had some. You go first, please. I want to see what you think.”

 

Fitzjames stared down at his plate that was covered in a thick, sickly looking yellow-white growth. Sophia Cracroft’s homemade scrambled eggs; their first and only appearance, if all went to plan. Fitzjames nearly turned green, and it looked like he was going to refuse the meal; but surely he couldn’t refuse, not after Sophia went through the trouble of making him a home cooked meal. Anyway, he was already in hot water for missing church.She watched his hand hover over his fork, then, slowly, his hand moved towards a bowl of toast. So, Sophia thought, he is making a compromise. What a shame she had prepared for that too.

 

A loud crunch and Fitzjames realized much too late that it had been burnt to a crisp. His eyes screwed up and his cheeks turned from pink to a moldy green. He forced it down with a glass of warm orange juice. “Wow Sophia, this is really g...really good.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

In an extraordinary display of endurance, Fitzjames forced himself to gag down the toast and, in an act that must have been masochistic in nature, he started pecking at the gelatinous eggs. Doing so nearly made him vomit, so, in order to make up for that faux pas he did the only thing he was able to to save his now pallid face: keep on praising. “Simply scrumptious, Sophia, this is all very...very...fantastic,” he managed between constant and involuntarily made cringing, grimaces and all manner of disgusted expressions. “I, I, I,”-he rasped while trying to stop himself from throwing up recently digested grits all over the table (although if he did so the grits would look no worse for wear considering their earlier state)-I can’t get enough!”

 

“Oh please,” Sophia said graciously and laid a hand across her heart, “your too kind. It’s not _that_ good.”

 

“Oh, but it is!” He cried, albeit rather weakly; and as if to emphasize this statement he lifted a spoon of eggs; the semi-solid matter wobbled grotesquely for a long moment before Fitzjames shoved them in his mouth. Quite a sacrifice for, to put it mildly, doing so made him look like he was going to die. “Like a friend of mine once said; if it looks good, eat it,” he said weakly.

 

“Fantastic!” Sophia clapped her hands. “You know, I was only planning on doing this _once_ ”-she left that word hanging in the taut air before continuing-”However, since you enjoy my cooking so much, I think I’ll make you breakfast _every single day_. Maybe I’ll start making you dinner!”

 

Somehow, Fitzjames turned even more pale. Quite an amazing feat of nature if Sophia had to say so herself. “Oh,” was the only sound he made. It was impossible to tell whether it was a question or a statement, an utterance of horror or one of resigned acceptance. “Oh,” he made the noise again. _Amazing,_ she thought, _how one syllable can be filled with such dread_.

 

James Fitzjames had borne his suffering longer than she had anticipated, but perhaps that was for the better. It made this upcoming part of her plan the more likely to succeed. “Of course,” she drawled, “I’m a very busy woman, and I won’t be able to cook for you all the time.” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned towards him, speaking to him in a conspiratorial tone, “There's plenty of little places around the Cove you’ve never been to. Places that have opened up during your decades of absence: quaint dives and cozy little haunts.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really, really,” she said and giggled. “Just go out, explore without a destination in mind as you’ve so often said, and see where your legs take you. I’ve been to some really wonderful places where you’d least expect it.”

 

“I agree wholeheartedly.” A hint of pink returned to Fitzjames’ cheeks. “I might of already told you this, oh I keep forgetting myself! Any-who, I was backpacking with Henry on the Donausteig with Henry...You know who Henry is don’t you? Why, I don’t know how you can forget him. He’ll actually be here soon-”

 

“That reminds me!” she cried and rose to her feet in feigned excitement.

 

“Please don’t inter-”

 

“Have you ever been to the _Terror_? That’s a fantastic place!” Sophia fetched an old photo book and showed off a series of black and white photos. “You see the lovely building up top?”

 

“Hold it still, I can’t see it.”

 

“It’s right here.” Sophia pointed. “Right here. Started out as part of a larger whaling station, closed down, reopened as an in, closed down again, but…”

 

“But?” Fitzjames looked genuinely interested.

 

“It’s been reopened and renovated by two of Mariner’s Cove’s most upstanding residents. Some even consider them to be pillars of the community. I won’t tell you their names, you’ll just have to meet them yourself.”

 

Fitzjames took the leather photo book from her and took a closer look. “Hmm.” He flipped through it and found other, more recent photos of the place. “Hmm.”

 

_So now some places are too good for you?_ Sophia knew she was losing him, she’d have to act. The bait had been snatched, all she had to do now was pull. “It’s quite the package. Restaurant, pub, salon where you can just kick your feet back and relax.” She stood over his shoulders and leaned in to whisper in his ear: “Be away from the mister and missus for awhile.”

 

Fitzjames slowly nodded. “Mr...John can be a bit of a bore. Truth is, I’ve been looking for a more...I quess a more exciting conversational partner...Not that you’re bad or anything. I just want something new.”

 

“You’ll like the owners, may even love one of them.”

 

“Hmm.” Fitzjames continued staring at the photos. “Everything will be fine when Henry, _my_ Henry, gets back. I think I can bear your father’s torment a little longer,” he said with a smile. “It’s a cross I can bear...but don’t tell your uncle I said that!”

 

_Oh no you won’t_. It was time for her to call forth her reserves. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this but, after all, desperate times call for desperate measures. “Remember how the place used to be an inn? Well, they still have rooms available upstairs and you might be able to get a room real cheap. Especially if the owners like you. You’d like it there. It’s out near the woods so it’s real quiet, and you’ll be in good company.”

 

Fitzjames snapped the book shut. “How much, do you think?”        

 

“I can’t promise you anything…”

 

“Pray tell, _how much_ Sophia?”

 

Sophia smiled, it wasn’t anything like the ones before. It showed neat rows of white teeth, it was very cruel in it’s own way. A victor’s smile. She gave him some bullshit answer and could tell just by Fitzjames’ face that she had pulled it off. Of course, there was still some mopping up to do.

 

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place. I’ll have to look them up on my phone.” Fitzjames, all happiness now, rose to his feet and walked off.

 

“No! I mean, there's no need.” Sophia was right at his heels. “They don’t have much of an online presence so you won’t find any reviews.”

 

“That’s kind of odd.” he remarked.

 

“Not odd at all. It’s a little out of the way place but I and everyone in this town can vouch for them. How about this, we can go their together for dinner and if you don’t like it I can show you some place else.” Sophia seized his arm. “But you’ll love this place. I’m friends with one of the owners so I’ll have him prepare a special reception for you and after that, you’ll never want to leave!”

 

“Alright, alright,” he said, laughing; either because of her earnestness or out of relief of escaping her horrible meals she did not know. “I believe you.”   

 

“Alright, then we’re on at six.”

 

Without waiting for a reply she hurried upstairs and slammed her door shut. Their were texts and, God forbid it, calls to be made. The whole Fitzjames actually staying at Crozier’s was an unplanned improvisation. Crozier would be pissed once she told him, but Blanky wouldn’t, and she felt confident about being able to calm Crozy down rather easily. So far, everything was running along perfectly, like a gently flowing stream. Sure their were a few unexpected bends and it all may run through unexpected territory, but it all ended up in one ocean. No need to worry. None at all. Still, she had to ask herself, was the _Terror_ a good place? Maybe arranging them to meet somewhere nicer would’ve been better...No, she decided, it’s hard enough to get Crozier out of his shell. Even if she promised to start dating him again, he’d still refuse to meet one of her friends outside his comfort zone. Especially if Blanky wasn’t present in the room. Their was that damned dynamic of theirs to be considered.  

 

_Just don’t let him go on his phone, Oh God, don’t let him google it._

 

_Don’t let him see the reviews._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this I really want to do something written in the first person. Many people don’t find that point of view to be creative or consider it the ‘beginners’ way of writing, but there is a lot that can be done with it. Some of the most memorable stories, in my opinion, are done in the first person; and many third person works have so many internal monologues in them they come across as first person at times. This is easily one of my favorites based on a first person narrative. Thomas Ligotti is criminally underrated. I would’ve never heard of him if not for a Youtube comment of all things: 
> 
>  
> 
> [Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes](http://pseudopod.org/2015/04/17/pseudopod-434-drink-to-me-only-with-labyrinthine-eyes/)


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark when they arrived. James Fitzjames stepped out onto a parking lot of pressed, smooth dirt and stood still, assessing the scene. They had long since departed the artificial light of the Cove and now, he and Sophia, stood under a tapestry of stars hanging over a black wall of trees; their they stood, a near imperceptibly swaying backdrop that the  _ Terror  _ stood harshly against; jagged light poured out from barred windows and weakly revealed parts of building’s worn facade. Fitzjames scrutinized this far off place that stood at the edge of the municipal limits and lay upon the mouth of a great, primeval forest. Quaint did not describe it. This was damn near foreboding. Nevertheless, he maintained a smooth stride; his high heeled, pointed dress shoes of alligator leather making sharp dents in the soil.  

 

“Well, it certainly creates an impression,” Fitzjames said and sniffed. 

 

“Not quite what you were expecting?” Sophia asked while getting out of the car; her voice still pleasant and accommodating as it had been during the drive up here. 

 

“And people actually stay at this place?”

 

“Sure they do, not all the time though…”

 

Sophia lead the way and Fitzjames followed, wondering what exactly he had gotten himself into. He knew better than anyone that an adventure can start in the least likeliest place, and that if you stick to the beaten path you are nothing but a mere  _ tourist _ -and Fitzjames was anything but that. They halt in front of the door-such a heavy and knobby monstrosity, Fitzjames thought-and, with a grand flourish, Sophia opened the door and ostentatiously gestured for him to go in first. 

 

“Thank you, Sophia,” he said, and stepped through the portal. 

 

It wasn’t man nor woman who greeted him, but a massive, panting, shaggy haired Newfoundland dog that nearly bowled him over before he was scarcely through the door. Fitzjames was a strong man, and managed to brace himself against the slobbering monstrosity that started to stand on its hind legs and run it’s paws over his chest. 

 

“Not now boy! Not now!” Fitzjames cried. “Not my nice jacket! It’s velvet you fool!” He rested his hands on the Newfoundland’s neck and softly, but firmly, tried to get the rambunctious dog to sit down. 

 

“Neptune!” rapped out a strong, authoritative voice that stilled the dog and Fitzjames as well. “Don’t maul our guest, boy!”  

 

Neptune quietly trotted back to the origin of the voice; nimbly maneuvering his furry bulk through the clutter that lay all about the common room to where a man sat by himself. Even amidst the all around messiness of the room he possessed a certain dignity. Paintings, darkened with age, hung morosely from the walls and the old fashioned diving student (there was a graduation cap on the antiquated suit so, Fitzjames figured, it must have at least graduated high school) collected dust in a corner; but this all served to lend this broad faced man with a mop of blonde-white hair a certain gravitas. Still this person was not as stylish as James Fitzjames-the Newfoundland’s owner wore a grey pea coat, blue jeans whose knees were worn white, and flat black ankle boots. Quite a shame really, Fitzjames thought, a waste of potential. A fine person who didn’t dress the part was like a beautiful bird bereft of a colorful plumage: he or she is incomplete, and that’s the most jarring thing.

 

“Calm down, boy,” the man said while patting Neptune affectionately. He looked up and gave Fizjames a disinterested glance but, when he laid his watery blue eyes on Sophia, he instantly jumped to his feet. “Sophia,” he sputtered, “you’re here like you said you would be in this place that I live in. Hello, everybody. It’s a bit early isn’t it?”

 

“No Francis, we actually got here rather late,” Sophia said steadily and gestured at Fitzjames. “This is James Fitzjames, my guest I was telling you about.” 

 

For a moment, Francis looked resentful that he had to share his existence in Sophia’s presence with another, but this was soon replaced by a look disbelief when he saw James Fitzjames, or, more exactly, what he was wearing. Not everyone understood fashion, apparently. 

 

“Francis Crozier,” he said at last and shook Fitzjames’ hand, nearly crushing it in the process. Crozier’s hands were strong and hard with calluses. “Nobody told me this was going to be a formal occasion.”

 

“Oh, it isn’t,” Sophia laughed and Fitzjames swore he saw Crozier’s eyes light up when she did so. Well now, Fitzjames realized, no wonder she knows the owner so well... _ she didn’t tell me that _ . What else did she not tell him about? He felt his hair rise on the back of his neck. Maybe he was being just a bit paranoid, but if his travels taught him anything it was to always expect the unexpected. One moment your enjoying a stroll in an out of the way street in Venice and the next you realize your being stalked by a pack of pickpockets, and worse… “He always dresses nice,” he heard Sophia say, “he is the most stylish man in all the Cove.”

 

“Sure he is,” Crozier said. “Um, sit down.” He waved an an arm at the center of the common room where a square table was set up. “Nothing is on there...as you can see...it will all be served…”

 

“Won’t I see the menu first?” Fitzjames asked.

 

“It’s recently gone out of print sorry, but we have everything in the back.” Crozier turned around and started shouting through the doorway that lead to the kitchen. “Everyone is on the way. Little is out of town visiting his mom so he won’t be here and the other guy is running an errand...but most of the crew is here.” 

 

Fitzjames nodded like he was supposed to know who they were. Sophia said something nice about hoping Mrs. Little was feeling better. “Well,” Fitzjames said, “if we’ve got some time to spare I’ll go grab my things.” 

 

“What? Like an evening gown?” Crozier asked incredulously.

 

“More than that,” Fitzjames explained, “my essentials. I’m going to rent a room here.”

 

Crozier’s face underwent an amazing transformation: it turned a bright red, his jaw worked silently, and Fitzjames received the distinct impression of a mighty dam seconds away from bursting forth; but his eyes met Sophia’s eyes and all the color drained from his face at once, leaving behind a resigned, weary visage. “It would have been nice to receive some warning,” he said quietly.

 

“I called Thomas, Thomas Blanky, that is, and told him to tell you,” she said, and frowned. “He didn’t tell you?”

 

“No...not that I remember…” Crozier frowned. “It doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly. “Thomas! Did Sophia call you!”

 

“Coming,” came a faint voice. “I thought you forgot about me up here. Hey, Sophia! Wait for me.” 

 

“Your f-sick! You won’t come down! Not while your still infected, Thomas!” 

 

“Here I am.” The new voice seemingly rang out of nowhere and they all swerved around to meet it. A young man had noiselessly appeared in a corner, near the bar, where he stood with his arms crossed and a very impatient look on his face. Thomas or whatever his name was wore a sweater imbued with the color and consistency of a slimy mass of pond scum recently fetched from the Everglades. He was a handsome man-not as handsome as James Fitzjames, thought James Fitzjames-but he had a well kept look. What really struck Fitzjames though, were his  _ eyes _ . Instead of the usual blue or brown many had in the Cove-this Thomas carried a pair of green eyes that were startling in their intensity, like cut pieces of stained glass; they exuded a subtle, and Fitzjames couldn’t help but feel when they focused on him, malign intelligence.

 

Not for the first time this evening, James Fitzjames felt uneasy.

 

Crozier’s reaction was the exact opposite: he let out a sigh of relief and his body relaxed. “Not the Thomas I was looking for, but a sight for sore eyes nevertheless. This is Thomas Jopson-my reliable Thomas-he’s the one holding all this together.” Crozier laid a hand on Jopson’s shoulder and the latter man positively  _ quivered _ in pleasure at being recognized.

 

“Collins and Diggle are on the way,” Jopson told Crozier. “Henry...is in a bad way, but he’ll be here to greet”-he gave the visitor’s an annoyed glance, as if unhappy that his place of work was actually receiving people-”our guests.” Jopson refused to look at Sophia; instead he trained his startling eyes on Fitzjames-sizing him up, maybe. Fitzjames held his eyes in his until, conceding defeat, Jopson ran a hand through his glossy black hair and looked away. Alright then.

 

“If Collins doesn’t show, he doesn’t show up,” said Crozier. “No one is making him do anything. That means you, Jopson. Not everyone here is as efficient as you.”

 

Jopson was beside himself in happiness at being recognized once more. He nodded at his guests before prancing off to set the table. 

 

“He sure is devoted you,” observed Sophia to Crozier.

 

“He’s a fine lad,” Crozier said fondly; then scowled, remembering what Fitzjames had said about his  _ essentials _ . To his potential tenant he said, “I’ll help you with your things.” 

 

“Are you sure? You can have one of your employees-”

 

Crozier grinned at that. “My employees,” he said, sounding deeply amused by the word. “Your making me feel almost proper. Almost.” He shook his head slowly, considering. “No,” he decided, “no one’s an employee here. I wouldn’t have anyone do what I wouldn’t do myself. No, I guess we’re all...associates...and they’ll soon have their work cut out for them.”

 

He opened the door for Fitzjames and the two of them stepped outdoors.

 

“So you and Sophia...are you two associates?”

 

Crozier winced. “You could say that.”

 

“You want to talk about it?”

 

“Not especially.”

 

“Fine then.”

 

They popped the trunk of Sophia’s car and began the arduous process of unloading Fitzjames’ wardrobe. They worked silently, the only sound their heavy breathing and grunting. After their labors, and without warning, Crozier stooped over slightly, propped his elbows ontop a large piece of luggage, and frowned at Fitzjames. “Who are you?” he asked, calmly, as if the only unusual thing about the question was that he never asked him sooner. 

 

Fitzjames was taken aback. He stiffened, involuntarily. “Didn’t Sophia introduce me?”

 

“She did,” Crozier responded easily, “but I’d like to hear it from the man himself.”

 

“Okay, sure,” Fitzjames said, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I was an army brat. I was born here, and uh, that’s the longest time I spent in one place. My Dad he er, was liaison officer for important people and organizations. I left home with him when I was very young.”

 

“Important people?”

 

“Very important people. I could tell you, but then I’ll have to kill you”-Fitzjames let out a nervous laugh-”When I got old enough I started travelling myself. First as a correspondent and then as an agent for an international commercial firm-”

 

“A very important commercial firm?”

 

“Yeah, like the biggest most important one. A BIG one, Francis, can I call you Francis? Okay, Francis, well, I don’t mean to brag but I was  _ very  _ successful in that line of work.” 

 

Crozier cocked an eyebrow. “So successful you came back to stay at Franklin's house and be chaperoned by Sophia?”

 

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Francis. I have serious plans for this place: a project having to do with the news and if I am to succeed I need the mayor’s cooperation. My stay, as you call it, was me getting into his good graces. I got it all planned out.”

 

“Great. You can tell us all about it at the table.”

 

“Fantastic!” cried Fitzjames, out of relief more than anything, and they headed back to the  _ Terror _ ; but Crozier didn’t seem very excited like the others did when Fitzjames talked about himself.  “You don’t believe?” he asked when they were at the doorway. 

 

“Believe in you?”

 

“Believe in my plans,” Fitzjames said pointedly. 

 

“Sure I do.” Crozier opened the door. “You first James, if I can call you that.”

 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Fitzjames huffed and brought his things into the common room where Sophia was hastily picking up her purse. “Where are you-”

 

“Something came up,” she said, hurriedly, “gotta go. Personal matters. You know how it is. Bye James, bye Francis.” 

 

“Sophia wait, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you…” Crozier’s gloomy voice faded away. 

 

“Sorry Crozy, gotta go. Have fun James”Sophia nearly ran out the room, only stopping to blow everyone kisses before flying into the night, leaving behind a deafening silence. 

 

Jopson laid a hand on Crozier’s shoulder and whispered to him, “We don’t need  _ her _ .” 

 

“Sophia…” Crozier rasped-his voice dripping with sadness and regret-sounding to Fitzjames like like John Franklin sadly reminiscing how that ‘borish Ross’ wouldn’t stop calling him Franky in high school. 

 

Fitzjames tried cheering him up. “Crozy, eh?” he prodded. 

 

Crozier turned grey and sunk into a chair, moaning in despair. Jopson hovered behind him and massaged his shoulders, leaving Fitzjames unattended; he stood alone for a long while, and then decided to take a seat.    

 

_ Sophia, Sophia, Sophia, what have you done to me? _

 

\---

 

They sat round the table under an awkward silence. After setting everything up, Jopson-shooting daggers in Fitzjames’ direction-sat to sat to his left and Crozier was brooding at the front of the table, right across from his guest. Well now, Fitzjames thought, this will not do. When it came to breaking a silence such as this two things were needed: food and conversation, in that order.

 

“So, how about that menu?”

 

Crozier snapped out of his reverie. “John! John Diggle!” he shouted at the kitchen. “Get your ass out here!”

 

A cacophony of what sounded like falling pots and pans greeted their ears, followed by vehement swearing and vile oaths. Jopson and Crozier shared a glance, shrugging to one another in a way that clearly indicated this was an all too common occurrence. A door behind the bar burst open and a large cook-there was no denying his occupation, judging by his stained, long sleeve white shirt and a dowdy  _ toque blanche _ -lumbered forth. He carried a large package in his hands. Without bothering to introduce himself, he yanked down a chair and plopped down on it; he slammed the package on the table, rattling the silverware and plates and threatening to send a precariously perched cup falling to the floor. 

 

“It came in,” he was rasping, “it came in, it came in, it came in.” He sounded out of breath and his face was covered in a sheen of sweat; he kept on repeating ‘it came in’ like a prayer.

 

“That was fast,” said Jopson, completely unfazed and leaning in, clearly interested. 

 

“I still think it was a dumb idea,” gruffed Crozier.

 

“This is what we need Francis,” Diggle breathed, “this is what will save us.” He wiped his heavily stubbled chin with a cloth. “My God, I’m excited! James came by the back door and dropped it off...some guy was with him...but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters. ”

 

“Well, what do you know? My name is James-”

 

“Give him a chance, Francis,” Jopson said. “Fashion is the best kind of advertising.”

 

“Fashion?” Fitzjames perked up. “I don’t exaggerate when I say I’m a bit of an expert…”

 

“Then I’ll allow you to try and judge... _ perfection _ …” Diggle breathed and ripped the parcel open. Shirts, white t-shirts. Fitzjames scowled. Mass produced t-shirts, in his opinion, was the worst disaster to strike the world of fashion. What happened to soft shirts with pearl buttons and cuffs? Matters only grew worse when Diggle unfolded the shirt and brought about a more disastrous calamity in front of Fitzjames’ very eyes. 

 

“Oh my God,” Fitzjames breathed.  

 

Against a white background was superimposed a stretched out and poorly pixelated image of Diggle’s ruddy and sweaty face, locked in some kind of grimace-it looked like someone expanded it on Microsoft Paint and haphazardly trimmed the edges, sometimes nicking the face. But this was just an appetizer for the main, horrid course. Writ on it were words more striking than  _ abandon all hope ye who enter here _ . Printed in comic sans and shining a blinding, bright lime green, were all the words, capitalized in their obscene entirety: I GOT DIGGLED AT THE TERROR. 

 

“Wow, nice shirt,” complimented Jopson.

 

Crozier shook his head. “You made a mistake making it white,” he said. “It’ll stain easy that way. Should’ve had them dye it blue or black.” 

 

“Or pink,” Jopson said. “The green letters would show up great against that.” 

 

James Fitzjames was in physical pain. The corners of his vision dimmed; he broke out in a cold sweat; his soft, light clothes suddenly weighed very heavily on his feverish frame. He laid one hand on the edge of the table for balance and clutched his chest with the other-his heart feeling like a heavy rock being tossed around a case of paper-mache. Never in his life had he seen such a horrible piece of clothing. At least rags did not have the audacity to flaunt themselves in such a...a perverse fashion. Yes, that’s what it was, Diggle’s shirt was  _ perverse _ . 

 

“We can make it a hashtag!” proclaimed Diggle to those at the table. “I got hashtag ‘diggled’...it can go viral…it will spread along with the shirt-which I will make more of- and everyone will have it and know about it.”

 

“Viral?” Crozier sounded incredulous. “What? Like syphilis?”

 

“You’ve always suffered from a dreadful lack of culture, Francis,” said Diggle and he laughed at his own words. “Ah ha ha!”

 

“Edward’s gonna love this,” Jopson said, picking up a shirt and carefully holding it up for his inspection. “You’ve got one in my size? And by the way, have you seen Henry around here?” 

 

“Whatever,” said Crozier, “it’s your money your spending, not mine.” He turned to Fitzjames who was drinking a glass of water, his shaking hands sending water splashing on the table. “Your a man who holds a finger on the pulse of fashion. What do you think about the shirts?”

 

“What do I think?!” Fitzjames squawked. “You ask me  _ my  _ opinion?” he gasped for breath. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell you,” he took a deep breath, “it is...it is…”  _ I’d rather get a manicure from fucking William Wentzell... _ He stared at the expectant faces around him. In this moment of high stress and rampant anxiety (and in other similar moments) time seemed to slow down around him, his mind also able to see the world around him with a newfound clarity. Crozier looked genuinely interested in his opinion while Digle looked slightly nervous, very rightfully expecting a negative reaction. No, they did not bother him.

 

But Jopson…

 

There was a kind of half smirk on Thomas Jopson’s face that he was miserably failing to hide. Once, very quickly but not too quickly for Fitzjames not too notice, he lifted a hand over his mouth; then he tilted his head slightly and ran the hand through his black hair. His emerald eyes glinted malevolently in his direction.  _ He wants me to lose my composure _ , Fitzjames realized,  _ wants me to ruin my face, my beautiful mask, in full view of my hosts...why? _ It didn’t matter. Even if it did, their was no way he Fitzjames could discern what the motive was while trapped in this heated moment. Decisiveness. His action must be nothing less. 

 

Fitzjames’ indecision only lasted five seconds. 

 

“It is...fantastic! Magnificent! Bravo, Mr. Diggle!” Fitzjames clapped. “What a lovely shirt you have made!” 

 

“Oh,” Diggle said, smiling. “It’s not like a sewed the thing.”

 

“But you designed it,” Fitzjames pointed out, “and it bear’s your face, your image! And the turn of phrase...why! Such a clever turn of phrase! You're like a twenty-first century Voltaire. I scarcely would have come up with it myself.”

 

“Come off it! That’s enough out of you!” Diggle shut down the praise, but it was very obvious how pleased he was. He carefully caressed on of his shirts while, next to him, sat a glowering Jopson. Fitzjames smiled at him.  _ How’d you like that you little bitch?  _

 

Out loud he said, “You’ll look real nice in one of Mr. Diggles’ shirts. The color of the lettering will match your eyes.” 

 

Jopson forced a smile. “Now your being sarcastic. I think your just being polite.” 

 

Fitzjames smile back and, maybe unconsciously, there was something reminiscent of Sophia in it that made Jopson run his hand forcefully through his hair again. “I don’t flatter, Thomas,” he nearly sneered. To Diggle he said, “You’ve got one my size? Pass me the box.” Diggle happily did so and, thanking him, Fitzjames sifted around it’s contents and took out a shirt. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he announced to his captive audience, “a bit of privacy, please.” 

 

Dramatically (as if he’d do it any other way), he vanished from their sight-which was rather easy considering how poorly lit the room was-and when he reapered he now wore the wretched t-shirt. James Fitzjames had, definitely and without a doubt, officially diggled himself. The cheap cotton shirt burned against his very flesh and the image of Christ with his crown of thorns came unbidden to his mind. It distantly occurred to him that his reactions were a bit ridiculous, but what of it? Better to feel lavishly, experience ecstasy and pain to their highest degrees, than go through life filled with numbness only interrupted by fleeting moments of despair-like a certain Crozy in the room. 

 

“Now that I have this thing on, I don’t think I can take it off,” he managed through gritted teeth. He took a seat and saw, to his great satisfaction, that his sacrifice was well worth it. Diggle was looking unbelievably pleased himself, smiling ear to ear, while Jopson actually looked somewhat impressed; but the better part of his gratification came from a most unexpected source: Francis Crozier. The host smiled, really, genuinely,  _ smiled _ -none of those self-deprecating grins or rueful grimaces. Crozier actually looked a decade younger when he smiled, and much more livelier. It was an amazing transformation that Fitzjames treasured without really knowing why. It didn’t matter. He loved that smile, loved the everyone’s reactions, because that’s what it is all about, he decided, making others happy while I suffer underneath my clothes, my mask. A fine pain. “Such a good shirt this is.”           

 

“Glad you like it,” Diggle said. 

 

It occurred to Fitzjames that all eyes-especially Jopson’s thrice damned eyes-would be on him until dinner was over with. So, naturally, the the best thing to do was to scarf everything down as soon as possible. “So, what are we having?”

 

Diggle shrugged. “Can’t you grab something yourself?” 

 

_ It’s your goddamned job to cook for me you greasy, fashion deaf cook _ . “I’d greatly appreciate it if I had some help,” Fitzjames explained, “it looks like you keep an orderly kitchen and I don’t want to mess anything up.” 

 

Diggle looked surprised that he had a kitchen at all. Unbothered by the proceedings; Crozier pulled out a bottle of J&B out of nowhere like some boozed up magician yanking stuff out of his hat. Jopson ran his hand through his hair and sniffed.  

 

Fitzjames politely cleared his throat.   

 

“This looks like a job for,” Crozier paused, filled a glass and downed it in one gulp, “our quartermaster: Henry Foster Collins.” 

 

“He’s a quartermaster now?” All eyes turned to Thomas Blanky who, uninvited, had descended the stairs. He wore a long, loose sweater, sweatpants, and fuzzy slippers shaped like wine bottles. “With all due respect to that poor, poor man, I don’t think the only thing he can do is moving boxes.” 

 

“The fuck, Thomas!”

 

“Yes?” asked Jopson. 

 

“No! Blanky! I’m talking to Blanky!” Crozier shouted and pointed at the man in question. “Your sick, I confined you to quarters. You can’t be here.” 

 

“He still acts like he’s in the service,” Blanky casually told Fitzjames as if the two of them had known each other their entire lives. “I’m Blanky, not to be confused with Jopson or the dozen other Thomas’ in these parts.” 

 

James Fitzjames introduced himself and Blanky made the worrying comment about meeting of plenty James’s but never once hearing the name Fitzjames-especially in or around the Cove. 

 

“Oh, I left home when I was pretty young. I never spend too much time in one place, really.”

 

“And here I thought all of us were the only ones who ever left this place,” Blanky said, gesturing at all his friends at the table. 

“So you’ve all been in the Coast Guard?”

 

“Of course,” said Jopson with undisguised pride. “I’ve served for nearly ten years...the others longer.” 

 

“Ten years?” Fitzjames was surprised. “So you must be what? Around thirty, right?”

 

“It’s impolite to ask someone’s age.” 

 

“You’re older than you look.”

 

“It’s...in the blood.” Jopson ran a hand through his hair and carefully appraised Fitzjames. Really looking at him; tilting his head in curiosity. 

 

“It’s impolite to stare, Thomas,” Fitzjames chided. 

 

Jopson’s lips curled back, and his exhaled breath, seething through his teeth, sounded like a hiss.

 

“Look everyone, it’s Henry!” Blanky butted in, defusing the situation. “So Henry, what’s on for tonight?”

 

_ Ecce hommo _ , thought Fitzjames with not a bit of irony. 

 

The smell, not the figure, assaulted his senses first. Sweet, cloying, he nearly choked on it. The stench was everywhere, but it evidently came from the white powder clinging to Henry’s massive, curly, black sideburns. His dark eyes were glazed but not unfocused, they appeared to be gazing at a far off, unseen point hanging over all their heads. The ratty, frayed, great coat he wore was smeared too with the mystery substance and the soles of his knee high boots were crusted with it. Over this haphazard collection of ancient rags was a broad, eerily placid face stuck between a pair of headphones that were blaring tinny sounding organ music-a piece by  Mendelssohn, perhaps. The greatcoat he wore was voluminous, being a bit too large for his frame, but Fitzjames could tell that this was a rather large, imposing, and most importantly,  _ thick _ man. 

 

Fitzjames’ face froze, but his excitement did not. :^) 

 

_ Who was this man?  _ He wondered. _ And what the hell is on his coat? _

 

“I hope that’s not what I think it is,” Fitzjames said calmly in spite of the screaming inside.  

 

“How else do you think we stay open?” asked Crozier; it was impossible to tell whether he was joking or not. 

 

“I don’t see anything,” said Blanky. “Just a few stains, that's all.” 

 

Collins’ eyes swivelled downwards in Fitzjames’ general direction. “Baby powder,” he rasped. 

 

“Are you fucking serious, Henry?” asked Crozier. “You’ve got a child? Christ!” He slapped a hand on the table. “Let me guess, the brats name is Henry...no wait! It’s a John.”

 

“A baby?” Fitzjames frowned along with Jopson, who ran an unsure hand through his hair. 

 

“Baby…” his voice faced away. “I’m baby.” Collins abruptly sat down in the nearest chair, it’s legs loudly scraping against the floor. He paid no heed to those around him; instead taking out his phone and looking at pictures of what appeared to be turtles: sliders, softshells, sea turtles, and many others Fitzjames didn’t recognize. The one thing they had in common was that they were all diving under the water. He carefully scrutinized these pictures, slowly slipping through them with his thumb that moved rather gingerly for its size. Every once and a while he would laugh and stomp his tall boots on the floor-a rough, raucous noise that gave Fitzjames a deathly headache that, combined with his stress of wearing Diggle’s awful shirt, slowly threatened to send him over the edge. Excitement turned to irritability. Collins didn’t notice; he was lost in his own private world of depth, turtles, water, and the half-heard notes of an unseen, piping organ. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed. 

 

Jopson leaned over to Fitzjames and whispered, “He’s in a bad way,” he quickly glanced at an oblivious Collins before continuing, “went missing during a cave diving accident. When Orren dragged him out he was more dead than alive, ranting about unnatural formations under the earth. Nonsense of course, but evidence of a deeply troubled mind, I’m afraid. Most likely the mental and physical side-effects of getting lost where he had no right to be. Francis has been looking after him.”

 

“It’s flour guys!” Diggle announced. “It’s just flour. Henry’s a funny guy, am I right?” He tugged on Collins’ sleeve. “Um,” he said gently, “hey. Do we gotta um, food that’s...edible.” 

 

Collins ignored him. 

 

“Henry Foster Collins!” Crozier roared. “What did I tell you about having your phone out at dinner? Especially while we’re having a guest?”

 

Collins tore off his headphones and shoved his phone in one of his greatcoat’s many pockets. “Sorry dad, I mean Fran-Mr. Crozier,” he said hurriedly. Obediently, with his head bowed, he gave Fitzjames a sideways glance. “Yes, it is I, Henry. Hello. Hello. Nice to meet you.”

 

“Likewise,” Fitzjames replied coolly, admiring the Collens’ hidden voluptuousness.

 

“So Henry,” Diggle said as if he were talking to a small, excitable child, “what’s in the kitchen?”

 

“Kitchen related items, presumably.” Collins scratched the ragged black mop on his head. To Fitzjames he asked, “Do you think I look like Little? I mean, I look nothing like Eddy, I’m much handsomer, but a tourist thought…”

 

“Don’t worry,” said a very suave Fitzjames. “I don’t have to see Little to know your much more fine.” Fitzjames leant over and rubbed his thumb along the cuff of the big guy’s greatcoat. “I love the style,” he said, wincing at the smell of mothballs, “you have that 19th century New England whaler aesthetic going on.” He wasn’t lying. Crozier’s pea coat and Collins’ greasy greatcoat, combined with all the nautical items lying around reminded Fitzjames of a bunch of grimy Nantucket mariners sitting around a grimy tavern, spending their time saying nonsensical things like ‘shiver my timbers’ and complaining about those new fangled steam engines; maybe they knew someone named Killick whose vocabulary consisted of swears. “Yes, yes, yes. I love the aesthetic here.”

 

Crozier, instead of looking pleased by his guest’s praise, looked angry.  _ No _ , Fitzjames though,  _ he looks jealous of my praise for Henry. _ Now, now now, and he thought Crozier did not like him. Not too long ago, Crozier had asked him who he was; now Fitzjames found himself wondering the same thing. This ‘Francis’ was certainly a puzzle-one that he must unravel, there was nothing he liked more than an enigma.

 

“Thanks,” said Collins, oblivious to Fitzjames’ musing. “I always try to look my best.” 

 

“Dinner, Collins!” Crozier demanded. “Where is it?”

 

“Well, it looks like you’re already drinking it,” retorted Fitzjames, cocking his head at the J&B. “Collins will serve us when he is ready.” In truth, Fitzjames didn’t care at all for food, anymore. In spite of all his sensibilities, he was actually starting to enjoy himself. His shame and rage over Diggles’ abominable fashion sense, notwithstanding. The not so passive aggressiveness, the casualness, the lackadaisical attitude of everyone involved-it all was a delightful antithesis to all the Franklin household stood for. Oh yes, he could see himself living here. 

 

Crozier offered him a truly mischievous grin, as if he was enjoying the game too. Fitzjames figured that maybe Crozier was tired of these yes men who surrounded him, and appreciated the handsome and witty personage of James Fitzjames. For the first time Fitzjames noticed the other man’s watery, blue eyes. Entrancing, he thought, and while he appreciated Crozier he was distantly aware of Jopson at the edge of his vision; the green eyed man sat silently while Diggle and Blanky talked excitedly about his shirts. 

 

Collins stared at nothing, and when Jopson whispered him a question his only response was: “I’ve dropped a few.” 

 

Finally, at long last, Crozier had enough. He picked up a pitcher of cold water and threw its contents all over Collins who yelped and leaped to his feet. “Is there food in the kitchen, Henry?” Crozier asked, all anger gone and replaced by a more caring tone. Crozier relaxed; his shoulders dropped and he leaned back. 

 

“Yes. I mean, I think so.” 

 

“Excellent, Henry. Now, is it edible? Is there enough for everyone?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Thank you Henry, that will be all.” Crozier faced Diggle and hissed, “Can you escort Henry to the kitchen and work a miracle?”

 

“Yes, sir. I mean yes, Francis.”

 

“And this time,” Crozier was sounding a lot less friendlier, “can you make sure Henry stays out of the fucking...flour.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Diggle huffed while getting to his feet. “He’ll be clean as a whistle when I’m done with him. I’ll be like his goddamn sponsor, that’s what I’ll be.” 

 

“Then do it.” Crozier lost all interest in the cook and focused on Fitzjames. “You’ve suffered our presence for long enough, I think. So, how ‘bout we hear about you?” 

 

An innocent enough question, Fitzjames thought, a question heavily reminiscent of that harmless “who are you?” from outside. 

 

Fitzjames smiled and accepted the challenge. 

 

“I’m glad you asked.” 

 

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Collins had a few words of advice for Diggle about his new fashion line. 

 

“First things first,” he said, “you must make sure all those shirts say ‘DIGGLE’. Gotta look out for those typos you know.”

 

“What’s the matter with a few of those?” demanded Diggle, who had become quite convinced his t-shirts were the fashion equivalent of manna dropped from heaven.

“I’ve just been thinking; there’s a similar sounding word to ‘diggle’ that we definitely would not want trending.” Collins shook his head, making his dark whiskers shake and stir like hairy snakes or a moths’ fuzzy antennae. “We’re already in enough trouble, John, and we don’t need that kind of publicity. This place is already in enough trouble, as is.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, chapter three was going to wrap up everything, but it's taking too long for my taste. So I'm putting this down and will wrap up everything next chapter-it will be a surprise chapter! :^) I like to keep the chapters short; it sounds to me like they are rambling if they go on too long. Anyway, it's all part of my master plan, it's not like I'm making this up as I go along.


	4. Chapter 4

James Fitzjames acquitted himself rather well, if he had to say so himself. 

 

They were all amazed, no doubt about that. Wowed by his globetrotting adventures and whenever, on the  _ extremely _ rare occasions, they threatened to bore his audience, he merely called on his endless reserves of amusing anecdotes. He had Blanky bent over with laughter during his retelling of how he protected a sea turtle nest at Madeira Beach all night by crawling around it on all fours, pretending to be a panther complete with hissing and snarling. Jopson and Crozier were a much harder crowd; no matter what he said, they always seemed to be skeptical. When Fitzjames brought up a firework show he did in California, Crozier’s only reaction was to make a snide remark about some wildfires he heard about; and when he shared with them the awful experience of falling down on the runway during a fashion show Jopson had the gall to ask if it was because of his high heels (which was true, actually).  

 

Obviously, if he was to succeed he had to resort to more drastic measures, telling the stories he never would have dared to if the Franklins was around. Tales full of danger and high stakes. Crozier and Jopson obviously had a very martial, macho man background, so he’d have to appeal to them on that angle. 

 

“You know, I’m something of a sailor myself.”

 

Crozier snorted into his glass. Jopson merely raised an eyebrow. 

 

“I’ve been on a couple really big boats. I was attached to a big one by this big commercial firm, you know...Really dangerous voyages off of Somalia…” 

 

“Don’t you mean a ship or a vessel?” questioned Crozier. “I can hardly believe a high and mighty ‘firm’ would stick a man of your uh,” Crozier smirked, “talents on a mere boat.”

 

“Boats, ships, vessels? What’s the difference? It all means the same thing…”

 

“It does  _ fucking _ not!” Crozier was absolutely livid; he slammed his glass down. “Boats, for your information, are small watercraft that anyone can use with the proper know how. I sailed boats by myself around the cove when I was twelve!” He threw up his hands. “Now a ship! To command one of those is to command men-a ‘crew’ for your information-and you’ve got to go to school before you can do that!” 

 

Blanky cleared his throat. “Um, Francis?”

 

“Interrupt me again, Thomas, and I’ll send you up to your room where you damn well belong. Hell man, you’re still sick!” Crozier sighed. “And how did you become qualified to command a ship? You never even told us where you went to school. Why, you haven’t really told us anything about yourself.” Crozier locked eyes with Fitzjames, and the latter man couldn’t help but burn red underneath them. The mask was falling off, inch by inch. This stubborn whiskey fiend would not allow himself to fall for the illusion, no matter how much easier it would be to do so. Most people didn’t like questioning others after all, but Crozier wasn’t like most people. 

 

If Collins excited him, then Crozier beguiled him. The angst, the drinking-all of that formed a mask just as real as the one he wore. Fascinating. 

 

Fitzjames raised his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright, I may have exaggerated a little bit about the ship. I have, however, sailed a boat all by myself, Francis, in the Gulf of Mexico.”

 

“Oh?” Crozier sounded interested. 

 

“It happened towards the end of my Florida trip,” Ftizjames recalled. “Henry Vesconte and I really developed a passion for small boat sailing when we were down there. So, fancying ourselves to be a pair of buccaneers, we rented a boat out of Saint Petersburg and decided to have ourselves a little cruise.” Fitzjames traced a little map on the table with his finger. “Little did we know, the Gulf of Mexico can be a bit volatile; especially in September.” 

 

“Well, count me as completely floored. There’s this thing called hurricane season; you may have heard of it.”

 

“Let me tell you,  _ we felt it _ . We were on our homeward leg; St. Pete Beach was just barely visible, when the storm caught up with us! We were running away from it you see...it was, er, behind us?”

  
“Astern”

 

“Oh well,  _ astern _ . But before we knew it were caught up in the gale; it was a watery Hell, Francis! It was like we were in a fish bowl being shaken up by a madman. The heavens opened up and released a barrage of rain and wind on us like we’ve never seen before and believe me, Henry and I have been through alot. The waves swept over the sides-”

 

“Gunwales.”

 

“Can you not interrupt, Francis? Thank you. Anyway, no sooner had we yanked the sail down-”

 

“Excuse me James, but it is ‘set sail’”

 

Fitzjames shook in agitation before continuing, “The wind was blowing so fiercely that our sail was literally torn away and flew through the air like a kite. We were left to the cruel mercies of nature: waves swept over us and pushed around all over the place, but never once getting an inch closer to the shore. In the midst of this chaos I maintained my composure, but I cannot say the same for Henry. Poor man was so frightened that he tied himself to the main mast with a cable (see? Not rope, because we’re on a boat, mind you) and left me to do all the steering. You should’ve seen me! I was struggling like Odysseus, trapped in a storm sent by Poseidon himself and…” Fitzjames gasped in shock. “Did Mr. Blanky just fall asleep?”

 

“He needs his beauty sleep.” Crozier padded Blanky-who was leaning far back on the chair with his head hanging back-on the shoulder. “Thomas reckons himself a dog-catcher. Keep going, you’ve got my undivided attention.” As if in response, Blanky’s face twitched a bit and he let out a snore.

 

“Alright then,” said Fitzjames, struggling to get back on track. “With the elements buffeting us all about, it should come as no surprise that our rudder fell off. We were caught dead in the water, I tell you! Our boat was as useless as a brick. You cannot imagine how we felt; we were like condemned men taking a good, long look at the gallows.”    

 

“And yet your still here,” said Jopson.

 

“In the flesh,” replied Ftizjames cheerily. “Now all this was happening in the morning, at low tide. Afternoon saw us still alive: soaked to our bones and near drowned we were, and we damn near went overboard on countless occasions. I hardly noticed it at first; nothing had changed besides the sky getting a little darker. Henry, still lashed to the mast, had more time to look around and it was he who shouted to me that the beach looked smaller. My poor friend panicked, thinking that the current pushed us away from land, but I saw that it was not so.

 

“It was the tide. It had risen, you see. And with any luck it was still rising, with the current directing it towards the beach. Immediately, I recognized the need to follow the current, but how?”      

“I remember the first time I lost a sail,” mused Blanky to himself. “Had to use my canvas pants as a replacement. Tied off the ends of the pant legs and arrived home within the hour.”

 

“I found that to be very insightful Mr. Blanky. However, I employed a very different method. Wherever we go, Henry and I travel in style. We piled our luggage-”

 

“Luggage?’ Jopson gave him a very condescending smile. “You go on a cruise and pack  _ luggage _ ?” He pronounced that final word like it was the name of a particularly nasty species of rodent. “You go on a ‘little cruise’ and you bring along a small wardrobe?”

 

“I never wear the same outfit twice in a row; and I prefer to wear three outfits per day: morning dress, evening dress, and sleeping dress, but that is neither here nor there. What is important though, is that clothes are a lot like water. On their own their quite light but when you get a bunch of them their quite heavy.”

 

“Whoa, that’s like, really deep,” commented Collins, whose fuzzy head was poking out of the kitchen from whence clanging pans and reverberating shouts could be heard. 

 

“And it was their weight we used to our advantage,” Fitzjames continued, “we piled it all up in the bow”-Fitzjames winked at Crozier and the latter nodded in response to the former’s use of proper nautical jargon-”and that gave our boat the momentum to follow the tide right up to the beach! As soon as we hit the sand we hopped out and ran up the shore until we reached that kind of tall grass you see growing above beaches everywhere.” Fitzjames gave everyone a wan smile. “Sadly, our savior met a very undignified fate. In our haste to escape we left behind our luggage, and soon as we turned back we saw it blow away with our boat; going to the far off horizon...We stood there for a long time-our tears indistinguishable from the rain drops-and watched what reminded me of a viking funeral.” 

 

Jopson shook his head. “A fine story; a real joy to listen to. Still, I think it was more luck than anything. You don’t escape a storm by putting all your weight on one part of your boat. That’s how you capsize. Quite frankly, it’s something of a miracle you’re alive.”

 

“I wouldn’t be too quick to judge,” put in Crozier, who had been listening very attentively. “We both know of stranger happenings on the high seas. I personally find James’ tale to be highly probable.” Crozier turned to Fitzjames and his face softened. “You might have some talent.”

 

Fitzjames’ face immediately flushed with pleasure. For some inexplicable reason, he found himself really caring about what Crozier thought of him. It was like this man who he had just met, and who behavior he did not particularly care for, had become a mirror he could judge himself against. Never before had anyone had such an effect on him, and for the first time Fitzjames felt frightened not by someone else, but by his own feelings. He had not even felt this way around Henry Vesconte-he was a close friend but one who mostly got along with him, propped him up when he was feeling particularly gloomy. A brother, not a…   

 

_ My God, this can’t be happening. Not here, not now.  _ Then:  _ But are we really that different? _

 

Crozier had Blanky and his crew; Fitzjames had Vesconte and whoever else he was able to charm at any moment. Crozier had his spirits and bar while Fitzjames had his stories and his clothes. But what was behind it all? Could their hearts, possibly and unbelievably, be of a similar nature? 

 

Fitzjames realized his face must have betrayed some of his thoughts, because Crozier looked surprised too-his eyes widened and he tilted his head; he had a very curious expression. He started to speak but a door slammed open and Diggle and Collins came in carrying platters-large, primitive, metal monstrosities possessing a faded lustre-and carefully placed them on the table. 

 

Fitzjames was flooded with relief...and disappointment. 

 

“Bone...bone appetite,” said Collins in a very husky voice, and dramatically pulled off the lids.

 

Seafood in it’s endless multitudes; a veritable nautical cornucopia. Flora and fauna from the bay, along with some specimens that Fitzjames could not recognize, flooded the tabletop and threatened to spill over the side. That is if their meal didn’t crawl, slither, or flop off first, anyway. It looked like their meal had been hardly cooked at all. The blank, bulbous eyes of the fish stared upwards at the smoke-stained ceiling; their scales still possessing a soft sheen that twinkled hideously in the dim light. Glistening, dark shelled mussels, lay piled over one another in a tin bowl: frozen mid-gasp. The worst were the eels, no…Fitzjames leaned in closer. Lampreys trapped in a silent struggle against each other; their wicked, tubelike mouths yawning hideously at him. Strange, he thought, he had never see anyone eating those outside of Europe. 

 

The stench of saltwater and freshly shaven scales filled the room. 

 

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Fitzjames said.

 

“Pleasantly surprised, I hope?” asked Crozier.

 

“Very,” replied Fitzjames, easily enough and feeling startled at how comfortable he had grown around him.

 

“Then let’s dig in.” Diggle was already wrapping a long, linen napkin around his thick neck. “Help yourself.”

 

It all looked to be rather raw, but it wasn’t like that was anything new to Fitzjames; it couldn’t be more unusual than eating live insects, after all. Not to mention that he was pretty damned hungry; what, with all this waiting and his not eating too much after Sophia’s stomach breaking breakfast. Still, he needed to ignore his base instincts and wait until everyone had filled their plates first. That was just common sense, after all. 

 

The others eagerly piled their plates; all except for Collins, who stared at his food, aghast. 

 

“Not hungry, Mr. Collins?”

 

Collins shook his head; his tendrils, curls, and sideburns shaking emphatically in agreement. “I don’t partake from what comes from the deep.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“I’ll have salad on the rocks...a moment.” Collins stumbled off. 

 

“Jesus, don’t put rocks in it!” Diggle hurried after him.

 

Crozier groaned. “You can eat, James, don’t worry about him.”

 

What followed was what had to be one of the most memorable dining experiences Fitzjames ever had-and he had enjoyed many. The food appeared to be, undeniably, disgusting. Along with the the fact that the victuals may be a little  _ too  _ fresh, in the dim light he fancied he saw a noticeable, viscous mystery substance coating everything. And yet, cautiously nibbling on a lobster’s tail, he found his meal to be not only tasty, but absolutely succulent! Sure his stomach felt a little odd, and it may have been making him a little lightheaded, but there was no denying the taste. He soon gave into temptation and began piling his plate; not that anyone else noticed his impropriety. Everyone was indulging themselves: Jopson wantonly snapping off crab legs and consuming the meat within-an action Fitzjames found to be eerily similar to wolves breaking the bones of a fresh kill and consuming the marrow-and Diggle was gobbling up entire slices of fish, spitting out small bones after each bite. Even Crozier, who maintained some semblance of proper manners, had abandoned the bottle in order to slowly, but steadily go through all that lay nearest to him. Neptune circled the table, sniffing the ground and brushing against their legs.

 

Fitzjames was idly reminded of Odysseus and the lotus eaters. This is better, he thought, so much better than that awful breakfast. There was no way he was returning to  _ that _ .  

 

Only Henry Foster Collins, pecking at a salad, sat at a table apart from the others in a shadowed corner. His headphones were back on and he stared fixedly at his bowl. The old greatcoat now lay draped over his chair; it had grown warmer, maybe because of all the body heat or the heat from the kitchen, and it was threatening to become stifling. Collins still refused to look up, or show any sign of discomfort.  

 

All while the others happily gorged themselves in this anachronistic Hell room.  

 

“Brandy!” Diggle bellowed between mouthfuls, “after a good meal we must have brandy!”

 

And so, in addition to their sin of gluttony, they all decided to attack the concept of temperance. It went down easy, and Fitzjames really appreciate how much stronger it was than anything Franklin kept in his cabinet. As a natural consequence, tongues were loosened and words were said that never could be taken back. 

 

“This is much better fare than what the other guys had,” Blanky noted after draining his glass. 

 

“Christ, Thomas.” Crozier shook his head in disapproval. “You’ve always got to mention that around the guests.”

 

“Mention what?” Fitzjames was experience that giddy mood where everything, absolutely everything, held his complete fascination. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, there’s no going back now.’

 

“Alright, alright; since the main course is over I suppose there's no harm in telling you that, over a hundred years ago, this was once the site of an incident of cannibalism.”

 

“I’ve never heard of an accidental cannibal,” Crozier grumbled. 

 

“I said ‘incidental,’ Francis.”

 

“If one thing’s for sure about cannibalism,” Fitzjames observed, “it’s that no matter how one goes about it, there’s always one guy complaining.”

 

They all broke down into a raucous fit of laughter that made Neptune prance about the floor and Collins’ long whiskers stand up on end. Fitzjames felt himself loosen: his body and soul pleasantly dissolving in this ocean of brandy, warmth, clinking glass, and companionship. It slowly dawned on him that he didn’t have to put on any airs here; they liked him, not his stories, but  _ his person _ . Emboldened by this success, Fitzjames began sharing stories he never dared tell at the Franklin household. He regaled his jubilant audience with a suspenseful and terrifying account of how, while held up in a dismal place in the heart of South America, he drove a truck loaded with ancient dynamite leaking nitroglycerin through steaming jungles and treacherous mountain passes to a burning oil field so that his, quite literally, explosive cargo could be used to extinguish the inferno. While everyone still reeled on the edge of their seats, recovering from the shocking conclusion, Fitzjames hit them with another thriller of how he spent an entire summer looking for the sun bleached bones of Ambrose Bierce in the blazing Sonoran Desert. When he feared that his amazing life wasn’t enough, Fitzjames stood up-nearly pushing the table over in the process-grabbed his chair by the legs, held it up, and made ready to shatter it on the floor for the amusement and gratification of his gracious hosts, but was talked down by an irate Jopson who had spent the better part of a day dusting off all the furniture in the common room.   

 

“You know, I’ve always been a disciple of the Humanities,” he announced. 

 

“People are certainly interesting,” Blanky observed. 

 

“No, no, no!” Fitzjames cried indignantly. “I mean the arts... literature, in particular.”

 

“I’m surprised you haven’t found the time to become an English teacher in between all your globetrotting,” remarked Crozier, the comment sounding more playful than hostile.

 

“I actually considered it,” said Fitzjames. “Why! I actually talked to Dr. Bridgens about it, but alas, it’s not for me.” 

 

“Who would’ve thought,” observed Jopson, who had already downed a couple glasses. “A limit to your mighty ambitions.”

 

“I suppose you’re perfectly content being the caretaker for this place?”

 

Jopson recoiled and pinched his face, as if he found the brandy disagreeable. “I prefer the term ‘steward’.”

 

“A shame,” Fitzjames shook his head. “And I was going to give you a maid outfit…specially imported from France.”

 

Thomas Jopson slammed down his glass and  _ hissed _ from across the table-or at least that’s what the sharp exhale of breath between clenched teeth sounded like. A heavy, tense silence, ensued. Blanky laughed, but it was very, very, strained. The scarce light played on the half-filled glasses and the clammy stench of desiccated, dredged up sea life hung in the still air.

 

Collins materialized near the table and in a heavy, ponderous voice, said, “It’s just a joke, Thomas. Ha, ha, ha, ha…” his voice trailed off. “So, um, reading is good...book’s that is.” 

 

“Just a joke,” Crozier repeated. 

 

“Yes,” Blanky agreed, “I like reading.”

 

“Reading is a fine thing,” put in Diggle. 

 

“Cookbook’s don’t count, though,” Collins told him.

 

“Yes they do!” 

 

“No they don’t. It’s not real literature if theirs pictures in it.”

 

“They fucking do! Why are you being such a furry snob?”

 

_ What the hell am I doing?! _ Fitzjames jolted into awareness.  _ This is turning into a disaster _ . “I’ve always been fond of poetry. Not the old Greek and Latin pieces that Bridgens is so fond of, but the more modern, experimental works.”

 

“What kind may that be?” said Jopson. His cheeks were flushed but he was obviously working to keep his voice level. 

 

“Pessoa,” the name spilled out of him. 

 

“Does his stuff rhyme?” asked Diggle. 

 

“Not really, but the prose is...exquisite.”

 

“Is he a Latin American?” Jopson asked. “I find Borges to be very interesting.”

 

“No,” Fitzjames said, “Portuguese.” 

 

Jopson feigned surprise, placing his hand against his chest and reeling back. “O-o-o-oh.”

 

Fitzjames ignored him; he didn’t even register the ostensibly titled steward’s presence. The name had awakened strange feelings within him; mysterious stirrings that, he reflected, had been slowly coaxed out during the entirety of his evening here. 

 

“I can spend all night praising him, so I’ll limit myself to talking about his most fascinating aspect: the use of heteronyms,” Fitzjames explained to his intrigued audience, “a heteronym-not to be confused with a pseudonym-is a person born of an author. A fully realized person with their own personality, style, beliefs, circle of friends, life story, and whatnot-a person only inconvenienced by their lack of a physical existence. Heteronyms only live in writing,  _ their  _ writing.” 

 

Many of the others were visibly confused if not, as in Collins’ case, completely spaced out. Only Crozier appeared to have an inkling of understanding; the proprietor regarded him with an intensity that warmed Fitzjames’ cheeks.

 

“Count me as fuckin’ bamboozled,” Diggle exclaimed, slurring his words. “A heterosexual is a fake...not real, I mean. So it’s just the author-the real man or woman or computer or alien or whatever-writing under another name. Right? How is a hemorrhage different from a...a pen name.” 

 

“A pen name is just that,” Fitzjames said while wringing his hands, struggling to put this marvelous concept into words, “a name. A heteronym is not a pseudonym but a  _ pseudo-person. _ Pessoa created dozens of people with their own lives and had them write…” He might have been talking to a gaping cluster of clams; they didn’t grasp it. “They commented on each other’s work...but they all belonged to one man, one poet.”

 

“I get it,” Crozier declared. “The author, Pessoa, comes up with the heteronym and channels them, the author does the writing but he carries the guise of his heteronym.”

 

“Yes.” Fitzjames couldn’t hide his startlement at the other man’s insight. “Something like that.”

 

“An alternate person,” Collins wondered aloud.

 

“It is my belief,” Crozier said, “that everyone is a heteronym, at least in public. How honest are we with other people really? Mostly dishonest with strangers, I’d say, and not much better with friends and family, even.” His eyes locked with Fitzjames’ again, and all else faded into nothingness. There was only Crozier...Francis...nothing else mattered. “We only let people see in us what we want them to see. We go out, and we mutilate ourselves for the joy of the masses, handing out the juiciest parts…and those parts become new people-like how a single cell splits into two. That’s what a heteronym is, right? A mutilation of the author.” He paused...then spoke with a greater emphasis. “What do you think? I’m not wrong, am I James?”      __

 

_ I want to get cozy with Crozy! _ Fitzjames’ heart soured and threatened to slip past his rips, shoot out his mouth and fly away to the heavens where all existed in divine perfection. Fitzjames had always been skilled in getting others to like him, but he had never wanted others to understand him (there was a critical difference between being liked and understood). The thought of someone else peering within frightened him and yet, with Crozier, he didn’t mind at all; Fitzjames actually liked the prospect. 

 

‘You’re right…”  _ you speak with more truth and you’ll ever know _ … 

 

Crozier felt it too, Fitzjames was willing to stake everything on it, and he wasn’t surprised when Crozier made a show of yawning and rising to his feet. No doubt he found this intimate moment to be discomforting. The others, instinctively maybe, followed his example.

 

“I’m tired,” Crozier said, “I didn’t expect to have as much fun as I did, but this was a remarkably bearable experience.” He awkwardly nodded to his guest. “James…” He hesitated. “I...look forward to speaking with you more, tomorrow.”

 

Fitzjames nodded. In truth, he was feeling a bit lightheaded and his stomach more than a little queasy, but he blamed that on these unfamiliar emotions coursing through him. Butterflies in the stomach, as they always say. 

 

“Same here,” he said, uncomfortably aware of all the others watching.  _ Do they feel it? _

 

“I’ve got your things upstairs, in a spare room,” Jopson said. “Follow me, please.” 

 

The two of them ascended the shadow draped stairs in silence; giving the impression a pair of downcast mourners going up to an equally gloomy room to observe a wake might make. Jopson lead the way with a lit candelabra in his outstretched fist and his free hand turned back at Fitzjames in a halting gesture; as if he-who took unsure, tentative steps during this obscured, treacherous climb-really needed the steward’s caution. At odd intervals, highlighted by the candles’ pulsating luminesce, there could be seen assorted nautical objects hanging on the walls: anchors, faded photographs portraying familiar faces (once he thought he saw Jopson’s face, but this was more likely to be a trick of the light), hooks, belaying pins, and the like. 

 

“As I said earlier,” Fitzjames called after him, “I love the aesthetic here. This place is like a…” Fitzjames’ alcohol swaddled mind had trouble conjuring his usual eloquence, “a grimdark Krusty Krab.”

 

“Hmm-hmm.”

 

“How did you ever gather such a wonderful array of items? Estate sales? Auction houses?”

 

“They’ve always been with us.”

 

“Oh-oh-oh; pardon me, Mr. Jopson.”

 

Without further interruption or incident, they arrived before the door of what was to be Fitzjames’ abode. It was located in a short hallway lit by flickering oil lamps that were set at regular intervals along the age blackened walls. Jopson grasped the brass door knob and opened the door.

 

“Right this way, if you please,” he announced without a trace of sarcasm. 

 

“Why, thank you.”

 

James Fitzjames passed through the doorway and into what must have been an abandoned room that had been quickly refurbished. All the tell tale signs were their: dust motes hanging in the musty air, a random assortment of furniture thrown about rather than placed, his luggage carelessly piled in a corner, and an air mattress unceremoniously dropped in the middle of the room. 

 

“I hope it’s to your satisfaction.” Jopson entered after him and closed the door. “We didn’t know you’d be here...permanently.” The steward tittered at that last word.

 

“You are gravely mistaken,” Fitzjames shot back. “This will only be a temporary arrangement. I’ve got plans Jopson, big plans, and until they are realized I will be enjoying your hospitality.”

 

“That’s why I’m here.” Jopson smiled. “To see to everyone’s needs.”

 

For the first time in a long time, Fitzjames didn’t know what to say. Sure he was no stranger to awkward silences-such things were always bound to happen when one spent so much time around others-but Jopson was perfectly serene. The steward stood by the door; a ghost of a smile on his lips and his body at ease. A fine creature in his preferred environment. He took a deep breath, apparently relishing the air. 

 

“This is really a lovely place,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

 

“It has a certain charm,” Fitzjames conceded. “Wouldn’t be hurt by some restoration… or maybe a complete renovation.”

 

Jopson sniffed. “And what's wrong with the way things are now, Mr. Fitzjames? The aesthetic no longer pleases you?”

 

“It does. It does, Thomas...can I call you that? It’s...” Fitzjames sighed in exasperation. “Do you want to keep living like this? I mean, this.” Fitzjames made a grand gesture encompassing the entire room. “Is stagnation, Thomas, it’s a stylish inertia. I’ve been here for less than a day and I can already tell you haven’t changed a single thing about this place. You take care of it, and do a great job of it, but you won’t let this place realize it’s potential. It’s like pampering an injured patient without putting them through any kind of physical therapy.”

 

“If it works, it works.” Jopson shrugged. “It’s always been this way, so why change it?”

 

“Why change it? Why change it?!” Fitzjames’ voice rose in pitch. “You’re friend, if you haven’t noticed, needs a psychiatrist! You can’t go into your own basement because of that mold Mr. Blanky was talking about; and you’re boss, one of the owner’s of this place, is drinking himself to an early grave! And I have a feeling all that’s only a fraction of what goes on here on a daily basis. Doesn’t that bother you, Thomas? Don’t you want to make a positive change?”

 

_ Why do you want to die here? _

 

Jopson’s face twitched. “Mr. Crozier will come to no harm. He possesses a strong constitution, and a stronger will. People here are made of stronger stuff. It his not his time.” 

 

“I don’t understand you.” Fitzjames paced around his room and threw up his arms. “I don’t think I will ever understand you.” 

 

“You’re not alone in that regard.” Jopson set the candelabra down on a nightstand. “But that doesn’t mean we have to hate each other.”

 

“Thomas…”

 

“I’m afraid we’ve started off on the wrong foot, you and I,” Jopson admitted, with a pinched and hesitant expression. “You have to understand, I’m a bit defensive of this place.” 

 

_ And not a little bit protective of Crozy, _ thought Fitzjames.

 

“We don’t get outsid-... Visitor’s much. I, uh, don’t know how to react.” Jopson flashed a very queer smile. “You’re not the only… fish out of water, you’d say?” 

 

“As opposed to all the ones we devoured?”

 

Jopson tittered and ran his hand through his glossy, lank black hair with such force Fitzjames thought the steward would yank his hair out. It must be a tic of his, he thought.  

 

“You’re witty. That’s refreshing.  _ Our  _ sense of humor is much more sardonic, wry, and pessimistic. I can see why Mr. Franklin likes you; why  _ she _ must like you.”

 

“Well, no harm done, Thomas. It was rude of me to come here so suddenly and expect so much. Maybe I can help out around here. Write a blog about my stay here and bring this place to the digital age.” 

 

Jopson grimaced in disgust, but said, politely, “Very considerate of you. I’ll mention it to Francis. Now, is there anything I can do for you before we turn in for the night?”

 

Fitzjames had half a mind to immediately send him away, but he could see that the steward was attempting some kind of oblique conciliation; an unspoken peace offering. To kick him out, especially after his apology, would be rubbing salt on a fresh wound. No, he had to ask for something, but what? Despite his surly mood, Thomas had done all he could and more; he was easily the most professional associate at the  _ Terror _ . A dizzying bout of lightheadedness made him reach out and steady himself against the wall with a clammy hand. 

 

“I confess, I think I had a little too much to eat,” Fitzjames told him. “Do you happen to have anything to calm the nerves?”

 

Jopson cocked his head and frowned; then he stared to slowly nod to himself. 

 

“Now that you mention it, Henry has a pretty sizable medicine chest.” Jopson retreated to the hallway and called over his shoulder, “Now, don’t go anywhere!”  

 

Ftizjames wasn’t sure he wanted to take anything having to do with the  _ Terror’s _ troubled (but endearing) quartermaster. But the deed is done, he knew, this is all there is to it. Manners are everything; without the veneer of civility all is passionate and raw and  _ exposed.  _ Fitzjames did not want any of that, not in the least. 

 

He heard a soft rapping on the door. Thomas must be back already. 

 

“Come in.”  

 

It was not Thomas Jopson standing in the doorway. It was Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier. The once boisterous and confident man now lingered in the doorway, his hands sheepishly clasping each other and his eyes furtively darting to and fro.

 

“Francis.”

 

“James…” Crozier began hesitantly. His face was still flushed with drink, but his voice was very clear. “I… actually.... Liked having you here.”

 

“Oh, um, thanks. I had a good time.”

 

“Right.”

 

James didn’t notice it right away, but by chance he noticed Francis reaching out a trembling hand. Without a second thought, James clutched it and gave him a firm handshake; just two mature adults showing their mutual respect, nothing more. It didn’t end there though, their touch lingered when it was over and it was only with some reluctance when they put their hands away. 

 

Crozier took a deep breath and opened his lips slightly, but nothing came out. A resigned expression overcame him and he started to turn away. 

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“Wait,” Fitzjames called after him and grabbed Francis’ wrist.  _ I have to say something, anything, or else what started will suffer an ignominious death; it will not come twice _ . “Francis,” he said suavely, channeling all his powers of charisma, “why don’t you ditch the zero and get with a hero?”

 

_ Shit. That came out wrong. _

 

Crozier’s face clouded in bewilderment. “Um... OK. ” He shuffled off. 

 

_Oh, damn! You blew it James!_ _Why does this always happen to me?_

 

“Hello, again!” Jopson came out of nowhere and startled him. He was carrying a tray with a pill and a glass of water. “Had a few words with Francis, did you?” it sounded more like an accusation than a question.

 

“Just a few.” Fitzjames accepted the tray and found, to his displeasure, that Jopson was still standing their. “Goodnight, Thomas. I’m sure you’re worn out.” 

 

Jopson shrugged. “If you need anything, just call for me and I’ll come to you. My room is just down the hall.” 

 

“I’ll remember that.” Fitzjames backed away. “ _ Goodnight _ , Thomas.”

 

The steward vanished without a word. 

 

Fitzjames closed the door and shook his head.  _ I’m glad that’s over _ . He plopped down on the air mattress and laid the tray on his lap. Was he really going to do this? A mystery pill from Collins’ stash was far from ideal but, damn, his stomach was really starting to act up and he didn’t want to get up in the middle of the night and get sick. This is really one of those damned if I do, damned if I don’t, situations. 

 

So, Fitzjames settled on a compromise.

 

Fitzjames split the pill in half and only swallowed that tiny portion. There, now such a small amount can’t do any harm, now can it? Fitzjames undressed-and took great joy in casting off Diggle’ shirt-and put on a dark green satin nightgown lined with stylized maroon roses. He laid down on the surprisingly comfy mattress, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes.

 

Drifting off to sleep, he felt the drag and pull of the past: everyone’s voices, the smells, and sights… and then something quite unfamiliar. A body of water; at first he thought it was the cove itself, but this was too small, and, as it gradually came to focus, he saw that it appeared to be landlocked; a lake, then. Faded colors; impossible to tell if it was night or day, like an old watercolor or an image out of that album Sophia showed him. Pale, blurred verdure encompassed the scene. Once, beneath the still surface shining like a polished mirror, he saw something appear; rising, growing larger, until it seemed ready to burst forth, then it vanished as quickly as it came. 

 

Otherwise, all was caught in a perfect still life.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'll get this done soon. It was never meant to be this long but all the scenes I come up with keep going on and on and on. I usually work with an outline, but this is just a vague three act kind of thing in my head. Most of the time I just throw in things I find amusing, but it all has a point. Two more chapters-a conclusion and an epilogue I'll try to keep too.   
> Originally, Collins was going to have an existential crisis during the heteronym discussion and their was going to be a discussion about identity and aliens, but it all went nowhere and putting that in would've taken me forever, so I dropped that. Their is another aspect about this fic that was originally going to be kept near non-existent and not play a significant role, but I found it to be funny so I started hyping it up the more and more I went along with the plot. I'll talk about it at the end. 
> 
> And I don't know why all my notes are stacking up on one chapter, if they still are anyway. I don't like the editing interface or whatever.


	5. Chapter 5

There was no mistaking the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

 

Fitzjames jolted out of a dream of half-remembered, chitinous claws and snow and blood, finding himself in a cloud of  exotic delirium; this was not the disturbed, feverish state brought on by malaria or the yellow fever – he was well familiar with those symptoms – but a new, truly novel, sensation he had never experienced.  _ Well old boy, this has certainly been a night of firsts, hasn’t it?  _ It was his own voice, yet it felt...different in some subtle way. 

 

The footsteps came closer. 

 

What time was it? Fitzjames groped in the dark; his limbs didn’t feel like his own either, they were like pieces of a complex machine he had borrowed from someone else. His fingers and hands were numb while his arms tingled, perhaps he had been sleeping on them the wrong way? It was still night, he was fairly sure about that, his head was swimming, and yet, he wasn’t aware of any drowsiness that was usually associated with waking up from a deep sleep. How peculiar this all was. His immediate environs gradually adopted a dim, purplish hue as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The vague outlines of his luggage loomed over him in the gloom, against the solid black shapes of the walls, but for the life of him he couldn’t find his phone, and if there was a clock anywhere it was sure as hell not visible.  _ My goodness, I never thought I’d want to find an alarm clock _ . He didn’t so much crawl out of, as he plopped off the air mattress in a heap of clammy flesh and smooth satin. 

 

The pounding footsteps halted outside his door. Whoever it may be seemed to be hesitating.

 

Fitzjames suppressed a gasp. Every tightly wound instinct coiled inside his being started screaming and unraveling in dismay. Fitzjames had stayed in enough places of ill repute to know where this was going. Who the hell would be wanting to check on him at this hour? Unless he was critically mistaken about their relationship, the prospect of Jopson doting on him was a very unlikely one. Anyhow, everyone should be knocked out on brandy and gratuitous amounts of fish – all except for Henry Foster Collins, that is… The troubled employee was only munching on that salad as far as he was concerned and he couldn’t quite remember how much he drank, if he had any drops at all. Has the big man decided to come for him in the night? And for what purpose? The mystery was infinitely more distressing than the present situation.

 

A soft  _ pat _ came from the door – flesh against wood. Collins pressing his ear against the door?

 

Fitzjames had been in much worse situations, but his blood had turned turgid in his limbs, and his mind felt scattered, like it was everywhere and nowhere. It was all he could do to get on his hands and knees and crawl away. It was a slight noise: the metallic sound of the door-handle rattling. His physical parts were slack, yet his senses were curiously heightened: the harsh feel of splintery hardwood against fingers now very sensitive after regaining their ability to touch, the satin of his gown sliding against his knees, scuttling noises from behind the walls, and that incessant jiggling from the door. 

 

_ The luggage, James, you’re luggage!  _ The disembodied voice that was both his and not his urged him on.

 

Fitzjames summoned his returning stores of strength and lurched to a rising ridge of suitcases. He heard the door creaking open just as he ferreted himself away in his hastily found hiding spot. Peering out between a slender crack in his cover, he failed to notice anything right away. Only dust gathering on the hardwood floor. Suddenly, startling him and causing him to back away lest he accidentally rattle his cover, a pair of narrow ankle-boots tiptoed into the room; even in the dark, there was no mistaking their smooth texture...wait! Didn’t Collins wear a taller pair that was much older? His outfit was pretty raggedy, and Fitzjames found the idea of the large, lumbering Collins sneaking into his room to be pretty laughable. Hell, if this situation wasn’t so terrifying he probably would laugh aloud at the thought. 

 

_ Is there a mystery man, besides myself of course, that I did not know about?  _ Perhaps Crozy had a mad mother he kept hidden away in the attic, who, enraged at the thought that her son invited a stranger, has decided to sneak away form her hiding place to wreck a horrific vengeance! Fitzjames’ drug addled mind – he held no doubts about that mere half a pill having a hold on him – conjured an endless menagerie of outlandish theories and fantastic conjectures. As wildly different they were from each other, their ends were always the same: a horrible fate for the dashing and handsome James Fitzjames.

 

The feet stamped irritably in place. He fancied that he heard deep, husky, rapid breaths, and the leather pair disappeared from sight. He did not hear the door close. 

 

How easy would it be to just curl up here, dismiss this all as a dream, and wait for morning. Inaction and indifference were always the easiest choices, so it was only natural that Fitzjames refused them. Among a host of others, Fitzjames always considered indifference to be one of the worst sins. The mystery figure may come back, and, scrunched up as he was among his belongings, he wouldn’t be in much shape to resist if found out. Fitzjames shimmied into the open. He thought of crying out for help, but what if that alerted the intruder to his presence before any of the sane people in the building could aid him?

 

What if they were in on it, whatever it was?

 

He had to get out of here! Weakened and confused, there was no way for him to use all of his martial arts skills to devastating effect –  he had learned and memorized all the pressure points of the human body, along with many other esoteric methods promising absolute incapacitation during his travels – and, piling on further woe, he had his gilded reputation to uphold. If Crozier or, God forbid, Jopson found him like this, he’d never hear the end of it. So he crept along; the only noise his wavering breath, the blood thrumming in his ears, his thudding heart, towards the exit. The yawning, umbrous portal leading to the hallway was so tantalizingly close… Just put your hand, forwards, then the other… A vision of a rapidly descending heel swinging from the shadows towards his face threatened to reduce him to a quivering wreck, yet he only closed his eyes and forced himself forwards.  _ Right hand forwards, James, Left hand next, right hand forwards, left hand next...don’t lose the beat, old boy! _

 

Outside the guest room, Fitzjames flopped over onto his back and wasted no time in gasping for breath. No relief. Gravity’s inexorable force pinned him to ground like some squirming insect. Great, yawning portals, standing either side of him and stretching down into eternity, told him this was the hallway. It was familiar, yet...different. Whether it was the pill or the food, he could not tell, but his mind was changed, perhaps irrevocably, somehow. It wasn’t so much that he was seeing new things, such as hallucinations, but that his mind was suddenly swollen and close to bursting out his skull – it had evolved into an almost physical entity. Never before had it been so clear, and, when contrasted with his near unresponsive body, his mental faculties were all the more startling. 

 

_ Damn appearances...I need help...Crozier...I need Francis _ .

 

But where the hell was he? 

 

Fitzjames’ head swayed back and forth, as if divining it’s location. Right or left? Only two ways to go… a fifty/fifty chance...Right, he’d go that way, right is right, after all. On his hands and knees once more, fighting down a wave of nausea, he crawled on down the hall, pausing every once in a while to wave his left hand as though to ward off a cloud of fluttering wraiths. 

 

_ Let’s hope there isn’t a camera watching you...if only, old boy, you could see yourself in a mirror… _

 

It wasn’t the dark nor the unseen threat nor the unfamiliar environment that frightened him; it was the overwhelming sense of vulnerability; intrusive thoughts of hands flying down from the narrow, umbrous sky and snatching him up nearly overwhelmed him and made his spine tingle. 

 

_ Then again, that was always what you were afraid of...wasn’t it? _

 

He found someone standing by the door at the end: a well built, silent guardian standing at ease. The same person, Fitzjames recognized the figure immediately, he (or she for all he knew) was playing games with him. Cat and mouse. He swallowed bile and turned around, heading for the stairs.  _ Christ...if I can actually get down the steps. _ The difficulty of his descent was somewhat mitigated by how large the individual steps were, large enough to to rest both hands while he supported his body, and he took it slow, never missing a step.  _ I swear to God...if the wood creaks... _ But all was silent, the only noise the reverberations of the strange knocking from within the walls upstairs following him down. 

 

Around midway down, footsteps were added to this accompaniment.

 

Fitzjames flattened himself against the wall and made himself as small as possible, crunching up like a small animal.  _ Stomp  _ –  __ Fitzjames wrapped his arms around his legs and held his breath –  _ stomp  _ – don’t get sick, don’t you dare get sick now –  _ STOMP _ – a heel crashed down scant inches from his pallid face; a faint impression of glossy leather and blurred motion and the figure disappeared from sight; only the faint scent of low-cost polish lingered in the air...Angelus if Fitzjames had to guess...so his tormentor was not only rude but stingy on their upkeep as well. This observation filled him with a special rage that flooded his laggard limbs, enabling him to reach the common floor without delay.

 

He found himself in a forest of stolid table and chair legs, all standing beneath a canopy of frayed upholstery. Stale, stagnant air permeated the new, stifling environs –  this musty, scaled up world. Hurried footsteps made Fitzjames dart under the cover of a table. The moving, black legs circled around him in a manner heavily reminiscent of that time he spent in a cage whilst a Great White circled him, dark blue eyes staring at and through his small form the way only a shark’s can, but there was no cage this time and his stalker had well proven himself to not be a mindless beast. Like the undersea predator, the legs smoothly set a new course and disappeared into the hazy distance. Fitzjames exhaled and, resisting the urge to dart for the exit, moved off to the cover of another table, expertly moving from cover to cover. The figure did not make matters easier; it constantly marched back and forth across the room, between the furniture he hid behind. The figure never tripped or stumbled in the dark; it moved as if it had the maze of antiquated furniture and props committed to memory. If Fitzjames wasn’t so obsessed with escape, he might’ve made the connection, but there was no time for critical thinking. He carefully timed his movement, quickly crossing the open spaces before the figure could intercept him...and this nearly happened, more than once...The figure was becoming more and more aggressive, never over him but always so damned near close. When he couldn’t see the hurrying boots, he heard there tell-tale  _ stomp...stomp...STOMP...STOMP...STomp...stomp... _ sounding off out of sight.

 

_ Do you remember, old boy, the nature of the hunt?  _

 

Fitzjames had to be close to the exit. He remembered that, not too long ago, he had been making introductions with Sophia in here and the worst-case scenario was making an accidental  _ faux pas _ . How silly did it all seem, how petty it all was. The past didn’t feel real, more like a dream, really. 

 

_ It isn’t the kill that matters, only the base and the sadistic and the cruel enjoy that lurid act. It’s the thrill, old boy, the thrill of the chase. Discovery, stalking, pursuit, then, and only after all proper rituals have been performed, can the ceremony of the kill be observed. A kill is only as great as the effort put in beforehand _ .  _ Any brute can commit violence; only a special few can hunt. _

 

The door was just a few feet away, he could lope to it in an instant if he put in enough effort. Was it locked? The thought threatened to send threatened to send reality crashing down from it’s precarious perch, shattering his mind and filling it’s absence with raw panic. No, he assured himself, everyone was getting so hammered that they probably forgot about locking up. Through a barred window came a thin sliver of moonlight that slanted across the floor, revealing a wide, open space that must be crossed before he could make it to safety. Just a few, dry floorboards – in this strange, heightened state, he made out the individual dust motes bouncing across the wood in sharp focus – and freedom lay ahead. Fitzjames saw himself hiding in the woods –  hiding up in the branches of a tree, perhaps, or burrowed away in some unseen defile – where he’d regain his strength and stumble back to the Franklin household. Oh, how shocking would his appearance be! A vision of him flinging the door open to their living room and staggering in like some dirt-stained ghost swam before his eyes. Sophia would feign outrage, but really be entertained by the whole thing; Mr. Franklin would ejaculate such inane phrases as ‘my word’ or ‘upon my soul’ or ‘this doesn’t happen here, this is a nice place!’ while Mrs. Franklin alone hurried to take care of him. 

 

The absence of footsteps disrupted his reverie. Now was the time to act.

 

It was a great risk; he’d have to leave the rather dubious safety of the furnitures’ cover and put himself out in the open where his handsome figure would be clearly limned against the moonlight. The figure was clearly waiting for him to make a move, but Fitzjames was willing to bet that the wraith was waiting somewhere near the bar – a silent harbinger of a cruel fate, a still figure amongst the ruins. If he could just make it outdoors, he could probably lose the thing. All he needed was the courage to make the leap, because there sure as hell wouldn’t be an opportunity to go back…

 

Fitzjames took a deep breath and hurled himself towards the door. 

 

Staccato footfalls bounded towards him, inhumanly fast and rapidly approaching. Fitzjames reacted instantaneously, rolling away from the imminent threat. No fear, no thought. He only worried that the end of his gown might get caught on the uneven floor and get torn away. It wasn’t until he crashed against the far side of the wall did he realize that, by God, he actually managed to  _ touch the door _ . Close! Fitzjames blindly scurried away from the loping noise; again this peculiar mood enveloping him lent him an uncomfortable self-awareness, making him almost feel like he was looking at this scene from someplace far, far away while he also struggled in the shadows. Close, he reflected while groping for a hiding place, may be one of the saddest words in the English language: to pray against all hope for a miracle is one thing, but gaining a part of that impossibility before having it taken away is quite another. That brief touch, he knew with dread certainty, would haunt him for as long as he lived – which might prove to be short…

 

No! His hand ran across the surface of a new portal. The kitchen! He can dart through there and get to the back door! Fitzjames easily forced his way through...and found himself falling into an abyss. Gravity had fled before the arrival of this pitching and turning void. Without frame or reference to latch onto, it was like he was hurtling straight down through the earth, down until he must surely be broken against something stolid and immoveable. He screamed when disorientation reached its peak, and, as if summoned by the sound of his voice, a menagerie of draped forms in all shapes and sizes rose up to meet him. Fitzjames bounced against a something hard, flew for a bit, then harmlessly plopped down onto a pile of old linens – bed sheets, tablecloths, and the like. Fitzjames buried himself into this musty nest and peered out. 

 

This wasn’t the kitchen, unless it was far more unsanitary than he ever imagined. 

 

It was the basement. A quick look over the place told him that the host of spectral figures were only old objects covered by old rags and blankets. He figured the taller ones were coat hangers and shelves while the shorter ones were stools, benches, and footrests. Such antiques may prove of interest to someone like Jane Franklin and her husband (although he’d never admit it), but Fitzjames held nothing but disdain for these cast-offs. If you weren’t using it, then throw it away! Was always his motto. A life of travel quickly taught him that if an item only served to collect dust, then it was only fit for the trash...unless it was a nice article of clothing, of course! There was always room for a cozy pair of slippers in Fitzjames’ suitcase. 

 

Heavy footfalls echoed behind him.

 

_ When bait and lures fail, after all available tools shatter, if all other strategies fail...no other option is left. If the game can’t be won, old boy, the field cannot be leveled, it must be destroyed; the board flipped over and the pieces sent scattering across the floor. You’ve observed, old boy, birds of prey flushing out victims with fire in Australia. _

 

I must find a place here and hide. Fitzjames recalled Blanky talking about the mold in the basement; surely this wraith, who had proven itself to be very familiar with this place, would know better than to stay in here too long. He will wait his hunter out, creeping away when he was finally left alone. A jolly fine plan. He proceeded to crawl under the draped objects, feeling, absurdly, like a child. He imagined he was going in and under the dresses of fine, society ladies or hiding within the massive racks of clothes they had at the malls his aunt used to take him to. A poignant, inexpressible longing filled his breast, but only for the woman who had cared for him. Homesickness was probably the only malady he never had the displeasure of having.

 

He crept further and further into the basement’s cluttered interior, without any set direction or purpose, holding the vague idea he’d chance across a safe, secure, and near invisible alcove to conceal himself in.

 

_ Slowly...quickly...it doesn’t matter; the prey will run out of places to run too. A confrontation is inevitable. _

 

The sound of footsteps gradually receded, and were replaced by a dry, rasping noise coming from somewhere off in the distance. An opened hatch to the surface left swinging on its hinges? A distant hope, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. The way things were going, he had to come across some good fortune. He crossed the distance without any trouble, cleared away the last few layers of fabric brushing against his face and found himself facing a small clearing. 

 

“Oh my God,” he gasped.   

 

Henry Foster Collins was kneeling in what appeared to be a twisted mockery of genuflection. Indeed, it was nothing less than complete irreverence, for the stout, bristly, claggy man was bare ass naked – and Fitzjames was pretty sure this was not what they meant by ‘sunday best’. Green glow sticks, forming a loose circle, cast a bilious light on the quartermasters’ flesh that gave it a near phosphorescent quality  – it was like watching a fish, with it’s shiny scales, swimming around just beneath the surface of the water; Collins’ seemed to be incredibly large at times, then he sunk away, appearing to rather diminutive, before rapidly expanding once more, the chemical light playing funny games with the size and shape of his form. He wasn’t standing, that was for sure, he was...walking around on his hands and legs, but in an odd fashion where his face and belly were facing up, it was like he was...scuttling around like the swarm of clicking shapes darting around the edges of the circle. This was no doubt a rather peculiar exercise, if Fitzjames had to say so himself, but this was actually one of the more tame rituals the traveler had chanced across. Presumably, Collins had been doing this interpretative dance for quite some time, which ruled him out as being the haunter of the dark or whatever was stalking Fitzjames. Following this line of reasoning, Fitzjames concluded that Collins may be of some help.

 

Fitzjames inched closer and saw Collins’ provocative form suddenly stop, disrupted by a series of  shudders and shakes. He reared up, and Fitzjames saw his body in startling detail: the black hairs crisscrossing his flesh like wire mesh; the flesh, that was normally hidden by clothes, shining like polished porcelain; his sideburns, reminiscent of grill brushes stuck to the sides of his face by a deranged Home Depot employee, stood on edge and neatly framed his pale face. Fitzjames put a hand down on the reassuring, familiar, hard surface, but, when he pressed down on it as he crept forwards, it  _ pinched  _ his hand. At first he thought he caught a splinter, but when he looked down he was met by the indifferent gaze of a crab! It’s bulbous eyes black points against a dull grey-red shell. Fitzjames reared up and found, all around him, a host of chitinous fellows climbing over one another in their haste to take a pinch out of him – and not in a good way! Fear, where all else failed, reanimated his failing limbs and he leapt up to his unsteady feet just before a swarm of crabs could crawl up his gown. 

 

Henry Foster Collins rose up too. 

 

It was like a scene created by a slightly madder Caravaggio, freshly emerged from hell. Collins was a towering edifice of sweet flesh and matted hair, his lower body lit up by harsh, green floodlights, and his upper reaches fading away into obscurity – except for his eyes, blank and lusterless, yet standing out more than anything else. He turned and stared fixedly in Fitzjames’ direction. 

 

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God,” he rasped.

 

Fitzjames wheeled around, heart all a flutter, wondering how he would pick his way past the crowding crustaceans and return to cover, just in time to see something white and flowing rushing him. Before he could so much as shout, the stained shroud flew into his face. He fought against it, gasping against the suffocating fabric and tearing it off, and saw a familiar face.

“How nice of you to drop by,” said Thomas Jopson.  

 

The things under the sheets...not all of them were furniture...Jopson must’ve been hiding, perhaps pretending to be a tall, lean coat rack, in plain sight. The horrid realization, combined with tonight’s trials, was too much. He choked back vomit and watched the steward’s smiling face expand and swim in a delirious current.

 

James Fitzjames fell, and was caught by a strong pair of arms. 

 

_ A noble effort, old boy, at least you tried.  _ _ What more can you do? _

 

\---

 

A vague sense of movement, then voices.

 

“Careful, he’s waking up.”

 

James Fitzjames opened his eyes, seeing Jopson and Collins straining faces. Slowly, it dawned on him that they were carrying him by the legs and shoulders, back towards his room, presumably. 

 

“Wha- What are you boys doing?”

 

“This is, uh, a dream, Mr. Fitzjames. You are dreaming,” Collins explained, speaking very delicately.

 

“Please, don’t call me ‘mister’, you might just convince me that I’m a proper gentleman, ha-ah,” Fitzjames told them before blacking out with a feeling of relief; he had been saved! 

 

Or so he thought. 

 

He smelled it first: sweet, moist, wet grass, and the pervading pine; then he heard the wet squelching come from ahead and behind. Resisting the urge to fall back to sleep, he opened his eyes and saw the moon, swollen and white, peeking through an inky, bristling canopy upheld by massive trees, their surfaces scarred by moonlight. He idly watched the patterns passing by, finding them to be intriguing, and would have done continued doing so if it wasn’t for the damp, chilly fingers sinking through his flimsy layer of clothing. Shivering, he reached down for his blanket but only pawed at the soft surface of his air mattress. He caught a fleeting vision of a heaving back in front of him, before the moon vanished under a curtain of foliage and clouds. He fought down the hysteria rising in his chest; whoever these people were, he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of hearing him beg.

 

“I certainly hope you don’t treat everyone like this,” he complained.

 

Light peaked out again, revealings Collins’ face glancing over his shoulder. “Not everyone, Mr...James.”

 

“Henry,” he gasped, “what the hell is going on here?”

 

“You know full well what’s going on,” Jopson hissed behind and over him. “You’ve only got yourself to blame.”

 

“Thomas?!” Fitzjames cried. “It was you! You poisoned me! You’ve only yourself to blame you damn rat! A…a….a devious deceiver!”

 

“I did no such thing,” Jopson replied curtly. “And I am no such thing. I never forced you to do anything, nor did I trick you into taking anything. You had every opportunity to send me out your room, but you were undone by those wretched manners of yours. Animals, as someone of some marginal importance once said, are often undone by traps of their own making.”

 

“You didn’t give me anything for my goddamn nausea, you big bastard!” Fitzjames shouted. “I’m sick, I can’t even walk! I think Diddle or what’s-his-name gave me food poisoning.” 

 

“It was a valium, I swear...It was a valium, was it Henry?”

 

“Oh, ah, no, Thomas. The labels are all old; I like reusing the bottles. I think you gave him my...self-medic-”

 

“Acid? You’re telling me I gave our most esteemed guest fucking acid?”-Jopson halted, angrily shaking his end of the air mattress, making Fitzjames’ head spin-”how do you expect me to get this place a star...a singly, tiny star...on Yelp if this keeps happening?”

 

“You said it yourself.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I dunno.”

 

“Don’t get smart with me, Henry, it doesn’t suit you.”

 

“Hold on,” Fitzjames interrupted, “this isn’t the first time?”

 

Jopson took a deep breath, paused for a significant moment, and spoke in the oblique fashion that can be found in bullshitters everywhere. “That is a general statement that can be applied to a variety of complex issues, but you are not wrong, more or less.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The duo resumed their march, Fitzjames carried between them on his stretcher-turned-bed. Fitzjames complained every step of the way, having promised himself that if he was going to be kidnapped, he was going to be the biggest pain in the ass for every step of the way. 

 

At last, completely beside himself in frustration, Jopson halted and shook his end of the mattress once more. “Patrons – especially patrons from abroad –  and I have never really benefited from cordial relations, you see. I am a sensitive man,  _ James _ ”-Jopson shook the mattress again for emphasis-”and I don’t take kindly to criticism or who seeks to disrupt our tranquil atmosphere; one that I put much effort into maintaining.”

 

“What on earth are you talking about, man?” 

 

“I think,” Collins politely intruded on the conversation, “Thomas is talking about that time an irate chef, from Britain, I think, came over and gave us quite the talking to. Red faced, he was, even when he wasn’t angry, and garish blonde hair that looked like it was soaked in bleach for an hour. He...did not like the food. The chef yelled a lot, and he swore even more than Francis…”

 

“He insulted Francis Crozier!” Jopson continued. “Treated him cruelly, and no one, I mean no one, insults Crozy in my presence! And come on, the food wasn’t that raw...It’s seafood; people don’t complain about sushi being raw. So I gave him a little something to calm the nerves and”-Jopson tittered-”that show of his was unfornteatly cancelled. No loss; ratings were dropping and it wasn’t like they were going to get better.”

 

“Wha...what did you do to him?” Fitzjames asked, trying and failing to keep his voice from wavering.

 

“Why James,” Jopson cooed and craned his face over his guests’, his green eyes gleaming in the dark, “exactly what I’m going to do to you.” 

 

That silenced Fitzjames for a moment, but not for long.

 

“I think I’m even more confused than ever,” Fitzjames said. “I mean, I confess to fancying your boss...but that’s not a crime, is it?”

 

“Not a crime at all, far from it. I’ve been hoping for someone to enter Francis’ life and take his pain away, someone to make him forget that dreadful Sophia, but let me tell you – You. Are. Not. It.”

 

They entered an opening where the branches thinned out, revealing a rich tapestry of stars. Fitzjames watched helplessly, wondering how many misdeeds those celestial bodies have been witness to and how bodies so majestic could be so indifferent. “I take it my charm hasn’t won you over?”

 

“You’re  _ act _ wasn’t convincing enough,” Jopson sneered. “You are a fraud and a liar...nothing less than an imposter. You really got me at first, I’ll admit, but you reached too far. I noticed them when no else did: contradictions, omissions, and blatantly untrue statements!” Jopson sneered. “You mentioned Vesconte, repeatedly, as if we didn’t know who he was.” 

 

“You...you do?” Fitzjames asked, and immediately regretted it. He had fallen in Jopson’s trap.

 

“Oh, yes. He’s from the Cove, and in such a community everyone knows one another. We were friends, you see, Henry V. and I. A matter of fact, I’m just about friends with everyone here...even if they don’t know it. Part of the joy of being a steward, you see, is the ability to become a fly on the wall, to listen in on everyone…”

 

“You must be very proud of yourself.”

 

“I am,” Jopson replied without a hint of awareness. “Henry V and I – I’m sure you know all about that nickname of his – kept up a sporadic correspondence after we left home. Honestly, I don’t remember much of what we said; just a few words here and there about what we were up to. I do remember one thing though, it was about a ‘dashing fellow he had met’, one who was a ‘charming companion through and through’, who was just ‘dying to come here’. Now, says I, who could that be? Not too many people venture to this part of the world with this particular place in mind.

 

“I forgot about it, for the longest time. Would’ve been out of my mind forever if I hadn’t run across the Franklins. Tell me, James, do you go to church?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Sometimes?” Jopson gasped in mock outrage. “Well, well, well, that really is a shame. If you attended both services – morning and afternoon – you’d know that the ladies of that estimable household are quite enamored with you. Oh yes, Mrs. Franklin and that wretched Sophia wouldn’t shut up about the ‘mysterious, but very fine fellow’ living within their walls. Now, if it had been only Sophia talking about all that, I wouldn’t of gave it a second thought; she is always talking about controversy. No, it was the misses. Jane has all the names committed to memory, if she says that she is harboring a stranger, that person is  _ indeed a stranger _ . If the said person was born here, the indomitable lady would’ve said so...but she didn’t.”

 

“That...that doesn’t prove a thing!” Fitzjames protested.

 

“It doesn’t? You said you were born here, but neither Vesconte or the Franklins mentioned it, and let me tell you, we’ve got all the birth records in the old church. How about we go wake up Irving and have ourselves a look? I bet he’s their right now, sitting in front of that painting of Saint. Sebastian and listening to techno beats...That’s right, I know everything about everyone. If I wanted to, I could easily take over Mr. Franklin’s seat, but that doesn’t really interest me.”

 

“What does?” Fitzjames demanded in a feeble voice, refusing to be cowed by the steward’s gloating.

 

“You’ll see.”

 

The trees grew scarce, the sky slowly revealed itself, and they emerged onto what seemed to be lower ground. A soft, monotonous, lapping noise made Fitzjames crane his head sideways and saw the inky beginnings of an abyss hanging ahead of them in the shadows.  

 

_ The lake _ , he thought without really knowing why.  _ From my dreams… _

 

They gingerly lowered the mattress down and Collins helped Fitzjames into a rough, sitting position. The two of them crunched away on the gravelly beach, giving Fitzjames hope that they wandered away, but the two returned to stand in front of him. A pair of arbiters silhouetted in the moonlight.

 

“Who sent you?” Collins asked in his husky voice. “Are you with the feds?”

 

“I’m not even going to dignify you with a response.”

 

“The Society of Starry Wisdom then?” Jopson followed up with a sharp edge to his voice. “Followers of the Morning Star? The Expatriates of Carcosa?”

 

“Goodsir’s Crustacean Appreciation Association!” shouted Collins.

 

“Or Bridgen’s Book Club? Which is it!” threw in Jopson. 

 

“Tom Cruise.”

 

Collins quivered in agitation. Jopson angrily stomped around in circles. 

 

“Is this one of those joke shows? Is there a guy with a camera watching us?”

 

Jopson stopped mid-stride and hissed, to no one in particular, “Is this a joke? Is there really anything funny about this?”

 

“There is something to be said about accidentally giving your guest acid.”

 

Jopson made a threatening gesture and whispered a few words to Collins, before making himself scarce, slinking back into the shadows.

 

Collins remained, wearing a heartbreakingly earnest expression. “We only wanted to talk,” he explained. “The mix-up, Thomas following you throughout the pub, it was all a misunderstanding. All we wanted to do was talk to you in private. To have a word with you.”

 

“You’ve certainly got an odd way of doing things,” Fitzjames huffed.

 

“I’m sorry, alright. And I am sure Thomas is too, he’s can get really high-strung sometimes, but he’s a great guy…” Collins trailed off, and helplessly wrung his hands. “You’ve got secrets, we’ve got secrets. I’ll tell you ours and then you’ll tell us yours. That way, we’ll be even. Just don’t tell Thomas we did this, please...Now, how about it?”

 

“Fine,” Fitzjames said, more annoyed than anything. “I’ll play.”

 

“Alright.” Collins took a deep breath. “Well, first of all, Blanky was wrong about the cannibalism. It was, more accurately, communion.”

 

“Excuse me?!”

 

“I know that what you were going to say, but bear with me.” Collins inhaled deeply, and when he spoke he sounded as if he had learned the whole speech word by word. “Deserters: that’s what we...they...were...a shattered band from Lundy’s Lane. They fled the killing grounds and wintered here in 1814; when there were no whalers, buildings, roads, and all was ice and trees and the falling snow. Even then, this place had a reputation for being a bleak, desolate wasteland – not like a literal desert but a place devoid of...good vibes, I guess. Settlers avoided the very ground our homes rest on, and so did the Algonquian peoples who said this land was haunted by the windigo, otherwise spelled as…” 

 

Fitzjames loudly cleared his throat. “Can you please get to the point.”

 

Collins sniffed. “Well, now you know how the rest of us feel like sometimes. Anyway,” he continued, ignoring the other man’s protests that he didn’t talk that much, “the deserters were safe here, since no one was ever coming or going around these parts, but that was a big part of the problem. No one to help, no one to rob, not a soul; only the deserters and their families.”-without warning, his dark mane shot up, every hair standing on end-”it was a  _ bad _ winter, Mister...James, like you have no idea. Not a critter in sight, not even a rabbit or a fox. People got desperate, a few died and it wasn’t because of cold or hunger or disease.”

 

Fitzjames wanted nothing more than to dismiss this all as nonsense, which it most certainly was, but he remembered Henry V –  that damned Jopson was right about him loving that absurd nickname – talking about some distant relative of his being an English officer in a local militia. 

 

But he never mentioned any of...this.

 

Collins wildly gestured at the lake. “That was around, it was always here and always will be. The men and women took turns smashing holes in the ice and together they fished with strings tied round sticks or their own shaking wrists...but to no avail. Nothing bit, and the holes froze over every night more often than not. They resorted to eating leather musket slings and crossbelts”-Collins mimed the action; he had neat, large, white teeth that showed themselves clearly in the night-”but no one can live off of leather, especially when it’s all soggy and old. They needed something  _ fresh _ .” 

 

_ Oh no _ , thought Fitzjames,  _ are they going to eat me? If that’s the case, why the hell didn’t they just invite Franklin over. _

 

“Everyone joined in the struggle for survival. Gentlemen sweated and toiled alongside men who used to be their servants and the little ones went out alone into the woods to look for kindling while their parents lay dying. One day, a chaplain was hunched over a hole, trying to catch some fish with a line of string round his hand.” He paused and gave Fitzjames a significant look. “Now, can you guess the chaplain’s name?”

 

“I may be reaching at strings,” Fitzjames said and waited for the joke to take hold but failed to get a response. “Well, uh, I bet it started with John.”

 

“You have no idea how close you are,” Collins said gravely. “Maybe he gave into exhaustion and fell in, or the ice shattered under his weight...or he jumped in on purpose...it doesn’t matter. The chaplain fell in and was gone before anyone could haul him out…” Collins gave the lake a nervous glance, and backed away from it. “ _ The chaplain came back _ . It happened on the second or third day. The morning’s pink rays shone on his glistening, drenched habit. He had a glow about him, like an Old Testament prophet coming down from the high places, and he told everyone that  he never drowned, that he was just talking to an Angel that lived just beneath the water, and that he brought good news.” 

 

Fitzjames shook his head. “This isn’t happening, this is the acid talking. I’m going to wake up in my own bed and laugh about all this.”

 

“I say that to myself everyday, but it never goes away,” Collins said sadly, “but it never goes away. The chaplain informed the survivors that the Angel wanted to enter a pact, a kind of covenant or, if you’re more secularly inclined, a social contract. The men and women would live forever, the flesh inevitably decaying and the bones collapsing into dust, but the soul living eternal, if they all agreed to partake in the Angel’s emissary.” Collins straightened, pressing his legs together and raising his arms either side in a crude imitation of a crucifix. “This is my body, this is my blood,  whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them. Do you understand what happened?”

 

Fitzjames looked more consternated than shocked at this revelation. “Do you think Francis likes me?” he asked plaintively. “I like him, but he’s going to have to change as a person if he wants to get with this. I have some standards, I tell you.”

 

“I’ve reached my decision.” Jopson emerged from the darkness. “It’s no use, Henry. We were foolish to think we’d have every be able solve anything by talking. To think, we actually considered waking  him up.” Jopson ruefully shook his head and addressed Fitzjames. “I have you figured out. A smooth talker whose come to deviously seduce  _ my... _ our Crozier away from us!”

 

Fitzjames shut his eyes. “This is a dream; none of this is happening; I’m going to wake up very soon.” He repeated these words and, listening to their monotonous repetition, actually started to believe in what he was saying. “None of you are real.” He opened them and gasped in disbelief when he found himself still here. 

 

“I’m the steward,” Jopson spoke over him, “I’m the only one who knows what’s best for everybody. Crozier is sick, he suffers an affliction of the soul, and I’m the only one who can make him better.” He clasped his hands together and gazed at the stars, speaking to them reverently. “I was ignorant for the longest time, like everyone, but my Mother spoke to me in my dreams the very night before I returned from my last posting with the Guard. She was all white and shiny and resplendent with jewels, _ she was shining _ , James, swimming with the Angels. She told me, in a voice without breath, to come here, and take up the work that had been specifically tailored for me. ”-he ran a hand through his hair and looked down on Fitzjames-”I always knew she’d never leave me, no matter what the doctors said. I’ve received glorious gifts: eternal youth and a charming personality. But you...I don’t know about you. You will be in the Angel’s hands now.”

 

“Or pincers,” Collins said, shuddering. “I saw the Angel...or a lesser thing. It wanted me to call it Robert.”

 

“Are you telling me...” Fitzjames shook his head in disbelief. “Your ancestors signed a pact with...and you are all in league with...a...a giant, psychic crab?”

 

“When you phrase it like that, it almost sounds ridiculous,” Jopson remarked matter-of-factly. “Anyway, this bores me. This has gone on for long enough, don’t you think, Henry?”

 

“Sure,” he said, sounding very not so sure. 

 

“Alrighty then. If we can’t judge you, James, then someone else can.”

 

They suddenly seized both ends of of the mattress with such a force that Fitzjames fell back down upon it, and he helplessly watched as they pushed him out onto the lake. He cried out, but somehow he was still dry. It’s an air mattress, he remembered, it can float. And so Fitzjames flew away on this rather odd choice for a watercraft and watched the receding forms of Jopson and Collins on the shore, happily waving him good-bye. 

 

“Bon voyage! Isn’t that what they say?” Jopson called out. “I can’t rightly remember…”

 

It was a clear sky, and the water was perfectly still. Fitzjames moved over the face of the bejeweled waters, flying past great constellations and winking stars. Never in all his travels had he seen water acting so much like a mirror. His crossing left behind a barely perceptible wake that shook the celestial bodies behind him, and, watching this, he felt a curious sense of peace overwhelm him. 

 

_ This isn’t happening. The poorly cooked food I ate, the mold in the basement, what Jopson gave me – it has all combined to give this truly bizarre dream. I’m going to wake up now. _ Fitzjames pinched himself. Nothing happened.  _ OK, so maybe this is happening, but there are no angels. Jopson and Collins are of their minds on mold fumes and barely cooked seafood. Maybe they are suffering from mercury poisoning.  _

 

At last, the air mattress slowed to a halt and bobbed in what, Fitzjames roughly calculated, to be the middle of the lake. The waters, still chill this time of year, yawned underneath him; the mattress so small and insignificant against this watery, white-speckled void. The thought that a giant beast, or any kind of thing for that matter, lived down here was laughable. If this was not a dream, then it must mean that he was pushed out here by a pair of crazy men  _ –  _ making this all not only an unpleasant occurrence, but even worse, a total waste of time. Well, he consoled himself, at least this would make for a new, exciting tale to tell the Franklin's in that cozy family room of theirs.   __

 

But Christ! Was he tired...It had been a long day, to say the least, and recent events haven’t really alleviated matters. He’d get out of this mess, like he always has, and get back at those pair of brutes. Oh, he’d go easy on them. They were very troubled, that much was obvious, and so he would scare them a bit before, in a public display of magnanimity, he’d let them go with a stern warning and all of the Cove would be forced to recognize him as an upstanding citizen.

 

And he’d be accepted, no questions asked. What more could he ever want? It was all he desired.

 

The stars seemed to be incredibly close; the horizon was indistinguishable, twin black blurs melding into one another in this cool silence. It wasn’t cold though, it was actually a relief to be out of guest bedrooms stuffy confines. 

 

With such pleasant thoughts in mind, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything will be wrapped up in the next chapter. This was never meant to take so long or be so long, but I got carried away. The whole Jopson and Collins cult subplot was entirely unplanned. Originally, Jopson was going to push a sleeping Fitzjames onto the lake out of jealously and as a cruel, unpsoken comment about his 'sailing back in the middle of storm without a sail story'. However, before that point was ever reached, the atmosphere was getting more and more unusual, so I just decided to go completely off the rails and make what was always in the background more explicit. Also, I found the idea of Jopson sacrificing everyone he finds unpleasant to be pretty amusing. Still, the cult was originally going to be more fleshed out through conversations with Collins and Jopson (Diggle was a member but was excommunicated for terrible fashion choices), and a certain bear shaped thing was going to make an appearance. But that would've taken too much time and shifted the focus away from the romance plot-line. Another thing I thought of exploring was the relationship between Jopson and his mom but that was way too depressing for this kind of story. Would've really ruined the tone. It's left implied. 
> 
> I earlier mentioned somewhere that I was going to do something called the Sexton, but that might not be happening. I've taken a lot of ideas from that and have (and going to) reuse those ideas for two original things I'm working on. I'm hoping to get them done sometime soon. You can see the drafts if you want, and try to piece together what might've been. I might self publish these with other shorts and try to make some pennies. Maybe.
> 
> A Reunion: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1GH7o-pbHlMJJwcXco-TDr_jVj2VtdrDhkk8g9xu3IAE/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> Alethea: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sXuCtwd44JBpTBYuEOzyG0t9j6dqHHV3Ts3y2HEDBsI/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> I've also been working on a third thing but it's only a large body of rambling ideas, notes, criticism, and comments about something non-Terror that I might shamelessly steal from. I mean if their not going to do anything with the IP, then I might as well - with the necessary changes of course, and a different identity, tone, word choices, genre. It could be considered a rip-off, but it will be done out of love! And it will differ a lot from the source material. It'll be a, in pretentious words, 'spiritual re-imagining'. I might link it somewhere, but I don't know where an audience for it would be. I mean, it's pretty much a dead franchise at this point, so no foul in my opinion. Here's a hint, what I'm talking about is a four letter word that starts with 'F' and it's not the f word I like using. I really hate the third installment, not canon at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I really can’t concentrate on any one thing for too long. I was going to do Among These Old Walls but I really felt like doing this. I’ve been wanting to do something from Sophia’s point of view and write characters I’ve never gotten around to. 
> 
> There’s also a bunch of other things I want to do (if I ever get around to it). One is an atmospheric au titled The Sexton. I've got a rough outline for it and I might post the summary somewhere else later. If ever worked on, it would be Hickey/Irving fic in the worst way possible. It is ICKY. Two other fic ideas are a Florida Man au and a Mariner's Cove au where Fitzjames goes to a party-the problem being the said party is actually a funeral. Things escalate from there when a strange beast is seen lurking the graveyard and a ring from the open casket goes missing. Hickey discovering some troublesome truths about Fitzjames in the church records after failing to convince him to stop looking into the missing item does not help the matter. The Florida au is much less developed but would be loosely influenced by a true event that occurred in the state involving spaghetti sauce. 
> 
> Chapter 2 is done and coming soon.


End file.
